


All in the Plan

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Extramarital Affairs, M/M, Mpreg, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 61,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: Patroclus has been chosen to marry Prince Achilles, forging an alliance between ever-expanding Phthia and his father's kingdom, Opus. As a royal consort, Patroclus has to learn the ins and outs of establishing his status as a member of Peleus' court, including keeping the favor of Achilles amongst many others vying for the prince's affections.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Automedon/Patroclus
Comments: 68
Kudos: 253





	1. Chapter 1

Patroclus woke up to the smell of burning incense. This was it. Today was the day. His thoughts swam in his head, watery images of the journey to Phthia, the welcome ceremony at the royal palace, and a face belonging to none other than the Crown Prince. 

Achilles. 

Today, he would be married to the future king of Phthia.

They had met once, a long time ago, when Patroclus was no more than a boy, and the Crown Prince barely a youth. Patroclus and his father had traveled to Phthia in honor of King Peleus, to celebrate the alliance between Phthia and Scyros. Each representing kingdom had brought gifts to the king. Patroclus vaguely remembered his father’s scrutinizing stare scorching his back as he slowly made his way to the dais, carefully balancing the lyre in his arms.

Peleus’ son had received it. Patroclus had been too preoccupied to pay full attention to the golden child of Phthia, but he had glanced up for a second. He had been met with a pair of green eyes.

This was a vague memory, but Patroclus turned to it now, fishing it out of the recesses of his mind and clasping it for comfort. He had no idea what the prince looked like now, but those eyes continued their gaze at him, unwavering.

Briseis smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder when he finally found the energy to trudge into the baths. He had been at the border house for three days, resting from his journey and preparing for the wedding entourage. He felt slightly consoled knowing Briseis would be part of the entourage, and would remain at the royal palace as his chief attendant until he chose his own among the Phthian servants.

He was bathed and groomed with scented oils, Briseis brushing his hair back and sweeping it out of his face. Phthians did not style their hair like Opians did, it was traditional to wear it loose, even during official ceremonies. He put on the Phthian wedding garments, not unlike the ones he had seen in Opus, but still, he had left everything from Opus behind. He was to be a royal consort of Phthia.

The garments were bright red, and he felt out of place in them. He had never worn vibrant colors in Opus. He didn’t think it flattered him, but Briseis insisted he was as beautiful as ever. He hoped his future husband would agree with her.

The entourage to the palace was a long line of Opian soldiers and nobility who had volunteered to accompany their Lord Menoetius’ son to his wedding. Patroclus himself, clad in his matrimonial robes, boarded the litter that would carry him to the ceremonial hall. He had been to this hall once before, the day he had met Prince Achilles.

Patroclus looked down at his hands, which were balled into fists and had started to grow sweaty. The smell of the perfumed oils he wore was starting to suffocate him. He breathed deeply, trying to think of Briseis at the front of the line of attendants walking behind his litter. She would surely have her head held high, staring evenly ahead. He wished he had even an ounce of her dignified pride.

The deafening buzz of the crowds surrounding the hall swarmed his ears as the litter was placed outside the entrance. Patroclus stepped outside, taking the arm of his guardsman who would escort him to the gateway. He tried not to look too long at the Phthian people, commoners, who had gathered to catch even the faintest glimpse of their prince’s betrothed. Reaching the gateway, the guardsman bowed, feet firmly planted at the threshold, forbidden from another step.

Patroclus bowed back to his guard, and began his walk down the aisle, where he would be received by his soon-to-be husband, father-in-law, and their chosen witnesses at the marriage altar. It was a longer walk then he thought. He could see them already, outlines of figures dressed in royal colors at the very end. The aisle opened into an atrium where the altar was located, and seated in tiers overlooking it were Phthia’s nobility. He broke out into a cold sweat, but his feet continued their advancement.

There was Peleus, tall and proud, dressed in ocean blue robes, his gold crown atop his ageing head. Patroclus thought he imagined the elderly king decline his head in the slightest of nods. The king’s gaze was fixed on him now, gleaming with an emotion Patroclus couldn’t decipher. He remembered Peleus as a handsome man, of middle age, with a loud booming laugh and kind eyes, who had embraced his father warmly and nodded at him with approval as they exchanged gifts, all those years ago.

And there, a little ways away from Peleus, was his son. Achilles. Patroclus tried to meet the prince’s stare, as intent and unyielding as he remembered. Patroclus felt small and irrelevant as he shrunk under Achilles’ assessing eyes, which seemed to be taking his measure, roving over his form and the red garments he wore, coming back up to meet again. It was then that Achilles smiled – not a kind smile, not warm or inviting as he reached out and offered his hand to Patroclus. Patroclus knew it well enough from his father’s own smiles towards foreign princes and ambassadors at court. It was a diplomatic smile, to show their audience he would play his part.

Patroclus hesitated, glancing at Peleus, who beckoned at the priest to begin the ceremony. The atrium and its watchful spectators seemed to pulsate in the silence. The priest began, speaking in the Old Phthian tongue, one that Patroclus had had to study when his father announced he would be sent to Phthia. He had gotten quite good at it, and could make out the ancient words being spoken. Sacred words. Words that would bind him to Achilles for the rest of his life, and its latter days.

Achilles’ hand was large and warm around his. They had broken their eye contact, and were facing the priest. The rest of the ceremony was a haze. Patroclus was woken in a stupor as he felt the cold metal of a cup being pressed on his palm. Achilles was staring at him again, expectantly. He was to drink the wine from the cup. Afterwards, they poured libations to the gods, and the priest smoked the altar with burning herbs. Weddings in Phthia were so strange. In Opus, there would not have even been a ceremony. The feast would start immediately, the wedded pair already having made their prayers and sacrifices in their respective temples beforehand. There would be a large banquet in their honor, while they sat on the wedding dais as their guests took turns presenting gifts.

There was a feast, in Peleus’ courtyard, after the ceremony. Achilles, his hand still ahold of Patroclus’ led him to the courtyard, and the guests followed in a procession. The ruckus began. They took their seats at the head of the table, one on either side of Peleus. Peleus stood, welcoming the guests in his thunderous yet regal voice.

“Today we feast in honor of my son, our champion, Achilles!”

The crowd roared, raising their cups high into the air.

“We honor our brother Menoetius, who has given us a gift of the greatest regard. Through his will, we welcome a consort for our champion, and therefore a consort of Phthia!”

There were more shouts of approval as the guests raised their cups even higher, some in Patroclus’ direction.

Peleus did not mention his name once.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The feast was impressive indeed, Phthia once more proving the extent of her wealth. Patroclus spotted Briseis amongst the servants, but he could not speak to her, not when he was now the center of attention. Peleus engaged him in conversation, speaking of his father and matters of state. Achilles seemed engrossed in his own interactions with the guests, laughing raucously at their jokes, drinking cup after cup of wine, paying no heed to the performers who approached their table, juggling silver balls and twirling batons of fire, pretty dancers doing pirouettes in patterns.

Patroclus felt hypnotized by them, unable to fully enjoy his meal of roast boar and stewed figs, olive bread with various dipping oils, spiced fish and cardamom pods. He nodded at Peleus, trying to come up with polite replies that would appease the king. Peleus seemed satisfied enough, and by the end of the night was talking with his advisors, leaving Patroclus alone with his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus experiences his wedding night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sex.

Briseis squeezed his hand as she fussed over his bedclothes, smoothing the sleeves of his robe. It was a silk one, amongst the few items from home he had been allowed to keep. It was a deep bronze color and embroidered with star patterns. They sat together in the dressing quarters connected to the main bedchamber. He and Prince Achilles would have separate chambers, of course, but for the wedding night, he would be expected to share Achilles’ bed.

“We shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Briseis whispered, twirling a strand of Patroclus’ hair. 

He had been bathed and perfumed once more, to prepare him for the consummation. He nodded, letting go of Briseis’ hand and entering the bedchamber. Achilles’ bed was massive, taking up almost the entire room, four posts towering above it, with red and gold silk draped over the top and hanging low over the bed. Achilles was nowhere to be seen.

Trying to calm his nerves, Patroclus gingerly sat himself on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. He didn’t know what he was more nervous about, exposing himself to a prince he barely knew, feeling the weight of Achilles’ stare on his uncovered body… or seeing the prince for himself, revealed from head to foot, and him having to please… warmth rushed to his cheeks as his mind summoned images of what Achilles might ask him to do, what Achilles would do to him.

Achilles kept him waiting a while. He sat on the bed, fidgeting with his robe, when finally the prince emerged, silently, as if from nowhere. Patroclus started as Achilles’ shadow fell over him. The prince still had not said a word to him. His own robe hung around him, so that his chest was bare. Patroclus allowed himself a peek at his now-husband. Achilles was at least a head taller than Patroclus himself, and now he towered above him. He was lean, yet muscular. The physique of a warrior. His hair fell around his face in messy blonde waves. Clearly, he had not taken as much care to groom himself for the wedding night. He hadn’t needed to. He was magnificent, and Patroclus didn’t know if he should look away, or keep watching. 

Achilles was eyeing him, shamelessly roaming the planes of Patroclus’ body. There was a downward tilt to his mouth. Patroclus couldn’t help thinking he looked unhappy. Perhaps he was dissatisfied with what he had gotten. Patroclus was no great beauty, he had the dark looks common to most Opian natives, and he was slight and scrawny compared to the soldiers in his father’s army. Patroclus himself was no soldier, he had been bred to attend court and engage in politics, and even that he did not excel at. Yet Briseis complimented his large eyes and long eyelashes, and he had been told he was pleasing enough to look at. Perhaps the standards of beauty in Phthia were different. Golden hair and light eyes, perhaps that was what Achilles had desired.

Patroclus had been so deep in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed that Achilles had moved to cup his chin. Achilles’ grip was firm, pushing Patroclus’ face up as if to examine a piece of merchandise. Their eyes met, and Achilles slackened his hold, thumb smoothing over Patroclus’ chin, his head cocked to one side, considering. He suddenly smiled, not the diplomatic smile from before, but a softer one. Slowly, he pulled Patroclus up so that he slid off the bed and stood on the floor. They stayed like that for a minute, facing one another, until Achilles put his arms around Patroclus so that they were chest to chest. Close up, his eyes were calculating, but not cold. They were as green as Patroclus had imagined. Achilles reached up to caress Patroclus’ face. His touch was more tender than Patroclus had anticipated.

“It seems Opus has more to offer than I had imagined,” Achilles spoke, his voice low in Patroclus’ ear. 

Patroclus tried to return his touch, pressing his palms flat against Achilles’ chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. Achilles grabbed his hands and brought them to the knot around his waist. Patroclus, trying to quell his trembling hands, untied it, and the robe fell to the polished floor. Achilles grinned. It was a wolf’s grin, sly and dangerous. He removed Patroclus’ robe, so they were both naked and pressed up against one another. Patroclus swallowed hard as he felt Achilles’ hard length against his own. 

“Perhaps you can show me what you can do, sweet little Patroclus,” Achilles whispered, his hand resting atop Patroclus’ head, applying pressure so that Patroclus slowly sunk until he was on his knees. 

‘He said my name.’

In a daze, Patroclus tentatively took Achilles into his mouth.

He had never felt more sober, yet intoxicated, in all his adult life. It was as though he had slipped out of his own body, and floated above passively watching himself pleasure Achilles, then being pulled up onto the bed so Achilles could prepare him. Yet his mind was alert, the image and sensation so raw and sharp, of Achilles filling his vision, weighing him down on the bed, his body warm and smooth and good. The nutty scent of the oil filling his nostrils as Achilles poured it over him, fumbling a little with the bottle, so that it got everywhere, on his thighs, his stomach…The sudden sting of Achilles’ finger penetrating him, then a dull ache as he continued, at a fast yet surprisingly gentle pace. He would never be able to replicate the feeling when Achilles was fully seated inside him, a solid mass between his legs, and how the bed rocked, how his body lurched in rhythm, as Achilles fucked him into the mattress, as they made love…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mention of mpreg.

“Wake up, Patroclus.” 

Patroclus stirred at the sound of Briseis’ whisper, her hand gently shaking him. Blinking to clear his vision, he slowly sat up, letting the silk sheets slide down his shoulders. Briseis handed him a dressing gown, placing slippers on the floor next to the bed. Her hasty, yet precise movements gave away her self-consciousness in entering a bedchamber that was not her master’s. She hadn’t even been this nervous the morning of Patroclus’ wedding. It had been three days since then. Patroclus slid out of the bed, cringing a little at the mess from coitus, dried up on his skin and on the sheets. Briseis said nothing, taking his hand after he put on the dressing gown and slippers, and ushering him out of the room. Achilles had a large bathing chamber connected to his sleeping quarters, but Briseis always led Patroclus back to his own room, further down the hallway.

The bath was already filled for him, the water lukewarm, and Briseis left him to clean himself up. The bath was large enough for him to sit with his legs stretched out, the water coming up to his chest. Soaps and oils were laid out on the side, along with long strips of white cloth to dry himself.

“Machaon is here to see you,” Briseis murmured in his ear as she helped him dress, tying the complicated knots on his new Phthian clothes and pinning the sides so they fit him better. Machaon was the Phthian ambassador his father had sent, to advise Patroclus on how to conduct himself in the Phthian palace and its court. Patroclus had taken lessons from his brother, Podalirius, prior to the wedding. Machaon’s presence was always a forewarning of Patroclus’ expected attendance at some court event.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was waiting in the receiving room outside the bedchamber, and gave a deep bow as Patroclus entered.   
“Your highness.” 

Patroclus nodded back, trying not to fidget as Machaon’s eyes scanned his attire. He gave a little sniff of approval.   
“You will be expected to attend court today, for the procession of the army returning from the north. The king’s generals will be presenting their reports.”

“What will be expected of me, ambassador?” Patroclus asked. 

“You will be seated to the right of the Crown Prince, as your place should always be. Afterwards there will be a celebration in honor of the troops’ safe return, and you will join Prince Achilles in congratulating the generals.” 

Patroclus nodded, taking it all in. 

“And your highness,” Machaon added, even as he turned to go.   
“Remember that your place here will be determined by how you conduct yourself before the court. It may not seem like it now, but you are in an enviable position, and one that is not certain. Show them you are worthy of the honor.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The ceremony was long, taking place outside in the heat of the afternoon sun. King Peleus, Prince Achilles and Patroclus sat on the dais underneath the great royal canopy, the flag of Phthia waving on either side. The chair next to the king’s left remained empty, as Patroclus had always remembered it. He didn’t know much about the fabled queen or her departure, but King Peleus had never remarried, and made all public appearances without a companion, even though it was common for noblemen at court to show up with their favorite concubines at their side. Machaon had explained how it worked to Patroclus, the ascension of one’s reputation and thus, value, at the royal court. It was a status symbol to be chosen to make public appearances alongside a person of importance, usually somebody who was highly regarded by the king. As Prince Achilles’ royal consort, Patroclus immediately enjoyed the role of his husband’s companion. But Machaon had warned him not to get too comfortable. Achilles, as Crown Prince, was naturally the most important person in Phthia, second only to the king, and the courtiers would stop at no lengths to win his attentions. If somebody else were to capture his interest, there would be no stopping Patroclus’ fall from favor, and his withdrawal from public intrigue. Machaon had made it clear that this was a game, and it was Patroclus’ responsibility to play the game better than anyone else, never giving Achilles a reason to replace him with another.

Patroclus had no idea how to do this, of course. The few days he’d spent at court had only given him the faintest glimpse of his competition, and he could already tell he was lagging behind. He might be Achilles’ consort, and his primary companion now, but he lacked experience and the many charms the courtiers smoothly manipulated to rise through the ranks. At least he had the king’s approval; Machaon had advised him to hold on to it, that there would be a time when the king’s regard would be his only anchor, once Achilles found someone else to occupy his time. 

“Right now, you are the reason Phthia has Opus’ support in Peleus’ campaign. He has every reason to treat you with great notice. But there is one thing you can do to ensure your position with the king for good. And that is to produce an heir as soon as possible.”

He contemplated this as the generals took turns presenting their reports. He had the mark, the bloodline carried down from his mother’s family aligned with godly power that allowed him to carry. It was the reason his father had agreed to give him to the Phthians, even though he was the oldest son, and the only legitimate one. His father had named a new line of succession, through his heirs by lesser consorts. 

He remembered his father’s words.   
“You may not become a king yourself, Patroclus, but you will ensure a scion of our blood will sit on the Phthian throne one day.”

“Patroclus?” He started at the abrupt sound of Achilles’ voice. 

The prince was leaning towards him, a hand held out. Tentatively, he took Achilles’ hand. Achilles flashed him a conspiratorial smile.   
“You seem lost in your own thoughts.”

Patroclus sneaked a glance around him. Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice, including the king, who was in the midst of conversing with one of the generals who had concluded his report.

“I… I was just thinking of the celebration later.” 

Achilles led Patroclus down from the dais, servants trailing behind them.   
“You mean now? It’s not as bad as you think. The soldiers will be happy enough to receive your congratulations.” 

“We don’t have these sorts of things in Opus,” Patroclus confessed.   
“Or at least, it would be done in private with only the king and his advisors in attendance.”

“Yes, we do like to make everything a public affair here,” Achilles replied airily, still leading Patroclus by the hand. 

Patroclus glanced up at him, but the prince winked, showing he wasn’t offended. Patroclus smiled back, and composed himself as the feasting began. It was not unlike the wedding feast, except less nobility were present, it was mostly the king’s generals and lieutenants making a racket as they enjoyed the festivities, many coming up to the king’s table to share their achievements that were not included in the official records, to give firsthand accounts of the battle at the northern front. Most of them spoke to Achilles as well, even joking with him. A few came up to Patroclus, introducing themselves and paying compliments. 

One of them was Lieutenant Automedon, who had been Achilles’ charioteer when the prince had gone to battle, and was now on the way to becoming a general himself. He was among the youngest of the men at the feast, and was probably Patroclus’ own age. He strode up to their table quietly, and was greeted with warm enthusiasm by Achilles, who immediately pulled him into an embrace. They exchanged greetings, and the sort of conversation between longtime friends. 

Then he turned to Patroclus.  
“So, this is the one.” 

Patroclus stood so that Automedon could take his hand. Their eyes met briefly as the young lieutenant kissed the back of his hand. Patroclus was unused to such familiarity while referring to him. Most of the others had just commented on the alliance with Opus and waited for Achilles to introduce his consort formally. But Achilles simply laughed, clapping Automedon on the arm. 

“It is a regret that you had to miss the wedding, my friend,” Achilles replied.

Automedon nodded, his eyes never leaving Patroclus’ own. 

“I am Patroclus of Opus,” Patroclus introduced himself, feeling foolish.

Automedon smiled slightly, it didn’t reach his eyes.   
“And I am Automedon son of Diores, your highness.”   
His head turned slightly to acknowledge Achilles.   
“I have known our prince since childhood. I hope we get to know one another as well.” 

Patroclus nodded, sneaking a glance at Achilles, who was already talking to another general.   
“Yes, I expect we will,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady as Automedon’s eyes stared back at him in their dark intensity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sex.

Patroclus’ fingers were numb from grabbing the edge of the mattress. He sighed as Achilles kissed his neck, pressed up against his back, rocking him forwards and backwards in time to his thrusts. Achilles had woken him up that morning, before the sun had even risen, trailing kisses down his spine, hands wandering over his thighs and the backs of his legs. It was uncharacteristic of Achilles not to be up at the crack of dawn, already gone by the time Briseis came to collect Patroclus from the prince’s bed. They had retired to his chambers the night before, after the celebrations with the army finally subsided, and Achilles had taken him on the floor. He was still sore, but Achilles was not making any attempt to be gentle. He seemed to want as much of Patroclus as he could get, his callused hands gripping Patroclus’ hips so hard they bruised. 

Patroclus flushed, thinking of the first time Briseis had seen the bruises, of the way she had pursed her lips, the question darting behind her eyes. She believed Achilles took him by force, and no amounts of Patroclus’ clumsy attempts to explain could convince her otherwise. Patroclus didn’t think Achilles’ advances were forceful. But he wouldn’t have ever denied him, anyway. Machaon’s words echoed in the back of his head every time. He knew what the ambassador would say. It was a good thing Achilles wanted him at all, and seemed satisfied by their couplings enough not to take a concubine. 

Patroclus did his best to please the prince, he moved in rhythm to Achilles’ motions, made sounds of pleasure, showed that he enjoyed it just as much as the prince did. It stoked Achilles’ pride, and Patroclus had caught on to that. He had even started to initiate sex. After they had finished, and had time to catch their breath, he would curl up into Achilles’ side, sliding his leg up over the prince’s.   
“Do you want me again, my lord?” he would whisper into Achilles’ ear, and Achilles’ eyes would narrow in lust, and Patroclus would feel him harden against his leg.

Achilles had grabbed on to his hair and his scalp stung as the hair was yanked back. They both groaned as Achilles met his completion, his hips joined to Patroclus’ as he finished inside him. Not a moment later, Patroclus felt the warmth of his seed dripping down his thighs while Achilles stretched out onto his back, covered in sweat, a satisfied smile breaking out on his face. He looked like a cat lolling in the sun, content. 

Patroclus looked down at himself, disoriented and disheveled. He didn’t know whether Achilles expected him to leave or not. He had never spent the morning in bed with his husband. A look from Achilles made him bring the covers up over them, settling at his side.

“Breakfast with me?” It wasn’t a question, despite the inflection.

Patroclus smiled at Achilles and kissed his cheek. “Yes, my lord.”

They slept for a few more minutes, then rose as the servants prepared the bath. Patroclus didn’t see her, but he knew Briseis was hovering, wondering if she should get Patroclus back to his own room or not.

Instead, he spent a good hour in the bath with Achilles. It was at least twice the size of his own bath, a large square in the ground with steps leading down into the water. Achilles took no notice of the servants bustling about, drawing Patroclus into his arms so that they leaned onto each other with the water up to their chins. His fingers threaded through Patroclus’ hair, untangling the dark strands. It was intimate, and Patroclus was surprised they had anything to talk about at all, but Achilles proved easier to talk to than he had initially imagined. He didn’t even seem to mind when Patroclus had nothing to say, happy to talk about his life, his daily activities as Crown Prince of Phthia. They seemed almost like lovers, murmuring to each other in the bath, pausing every now and then to kiss. Yet they would never have been in each other’s company that way if their marriage hadn’t been arranged by their fathers. Patroclus wondered if Achilles would have even noticed him, if he had been some courtier, or visiting among an Opian envoy.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

He encountered Automedon several times in the following days. The lieutenant apparently lived in the palace’s army barracks, and oversaw the training of the palace guard. They would cross each other’s paths in the hallways, and the lieutenant would always give a nod of greeting, ever polite, yet his dark eyes held Patroclus’ in a way that forced itself to stay at the back of Patroclus’ mind for the rest of the day. 

Podalirius, Patroclus’ tutor and Machaon’s brother, had been transferred to the Phthian palace so that Patroclus could continue his lessons. Old Phthian not only demanded to be read and translated, but to be transcribed in a specific calligraphy style that was as difficult as it was beautiful. Patroclus was learning the Phthian ballads, and the epics that were often performed at parties, about the ancient battles of the gods and their favorite mortal heroes. Podalirius insisted that learning to transcribe poetry was the key to performing it. The king had banquets and dinner parties often, where courtiers and courtesans of the highest repute would have the chance to display their abilities in the arts. 

“It would be to your advantage to show you can match them in skill, despite being a foreigner,” Machaon agreed.   
“King Peleus will certainly notice, and Prince Achilles will take his father’s opinion into account.” 

Patroclus also practiced the lyre and kithara, but he had little talent for music. Supposedly, Achilles was the best at the lyre. Podalirius taught Patroclus the various dances of the Phthian tradition.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“These courtiers, who are they?” Patroclus asked one day, as Podalirius was poring over a book of short poems.

“Hmm? Oh, your highness, Machaon would be better suited to tell you about it.”

“But he won’t say anything about the Phthian nobility.”

“Well..” Podalirius sighed and closed the book, reaching up to scratch his shaved head.  
“I suppose there are a few of note you should look out for. Sons of King Peleus’ closest advisors, who have known Prince Achilles since childhood.”

“Like Lieutenant Automedon?” Patroclus offered.

“Him? No, that boy is the son of commoners surely, or from a military family. He is not noble or wealthy. Do you know who his father is?”

“He mentioned… he is the son of Diores.”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell. Must have been a soldier, probably accomplished some rapport with his betters, to have his son admitted to the royal military academy. Or perhaps pure luck that he was the prince’s charioteer at all.”

“Then.. who?”

“Eudoros son of Echekles for one. His father is one of King Peleus’ most trusted advisors, and his mother a famous beauty. It is no secret that his family would want him to become a consort to the prince. It must have come as a shock to them that King Peleus had already arranged for the alliance with Opus. He would have been first choice otherwise, with a family so powerful and wealthy. They are the wealthiest in all Phthia next to the king, you see.”

“Will I see him at court?” Patroclus had never heard of Eudoros son of Echekles.

“He was at your wedding. You really should pay better attention, your highness. Eudoros is close to Prince Achilles, they grew up together.”

“But he is not in the military?”

“He bears the mark, from his mother’s side.”

Patroclus felt a sinking in his gut. That was dangerous indeed. If Achilles were to ever take another consort, this Eudoros sounded promising.

“He is the least of your worries at the moment, your highness,” Podalirius added, seeing Patroclus’ concern.  
“Besides, he’s not the only one. Many of noble lineage would have been suitable for the prince. And still would be, should you fail to produce an heir.”   
A severe look.

“And if I do? That won’t stop him from taking another consort.”

“No, but your son will be named heir to the throne. I hope you realize how much weight that carries, your highess.” 

A scion of Opian blood will sit on the Phthian throne. 

“When the prince takes another consort, and do not think it a question of whether or not he will – you may still keep his favor by giving him a son who will be the future king. You will be respected, and it will be just as well that you remain his chief consort.”


	5. Chapter 5

“And he gave to me seven talents of gold, and a krater of solid silver, and a… and he gave me…”

“Don’t stop now.”

Patroclus nearly jumped at the sudden interjection, the voice seeming to come from right behind him. Whirling around, he came face to face with Automedon, not quite leaning against a pillar, but rather seeming to have emerged from behind it. Those eyes were boring into him again. Patroclus held his gaze, struggling to find words.

“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.”

The slight smile Automedon offered was more placating than apologetic, but his tone was impossible to read, as always. 

Patroclus could not hold down the surge of indignation within him.  
“Of course not, I should hardly be startled at someone hiding behind a pillar as I practice my lines.” 

This only made Automedon’s smile widen.

“What is it they’re making you recite then? The Ballad of the Salt Sea? The Epic of the Early Born?”   
He stepped forward. 

“It is the Phaeacian Epic,” Patroclus replied, after a moment’s silence.

Automedon studied him, his head cocked to one side.

“I hear it is quite popular,” Patroclus added, flushing.

“Definitely one of the more underrated ones,” Automedon murmured, finally looking away.

“You will be at the banquet tonight, then?”

Automedon looked up and smiled again. Patroclus thought he could get used to seeing that smile.

“How could I miss it, now that I know you will be fumbling over endless descriptions of lofty mountains, ship cables and newborn lambs? It is guaranteed entertainment, Patroclus.”

Patroclus nearly missed the casual use of his name. Automedon caught himself, and straightened his expression. They regarded each other silently.

“I can see now that I am only an object of your amusement,” Patroclus replied, looking at Automedon sideways the way Machaon did when Patroclus couldn’t remember a line.

Automedon started to frown, but caught Patroclus’ subtle grin. He inclined his head.  
“Until tonight, highness.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Machaon and Podalirius were less forgiving of Patroclus’ errors. 

“Sweet wine! Seven talents of gold, a krater of solid silver, and honey sweet wine, drink of the gods!” Podalirius exclaimed, throwing his book to the side, where it nearly hit Machaon in the face. Machaon dodged it and shot Podalirius a glare.   
He aimed it at Patroclus next.  
“It would do you no good to forget your lines in the middle of a recitation, your highness. All eyes will be on you. I had hoped to emphasize the severity of the situation.”

Patroclus stared at his hands.   
“I do understand, Machaon. I’m sorry. I just.. need more practice.”

Machaon sighed. “We do not have much time. By all means, please continue.”

Patroclus began again, avoiding looking at Machaon and Podalirius as he recited the tale of the sailor in the court of the Phaeacian king, making sure to stay on rhythm. Podalirius had brought out a drum to help with his pacing, but Machaon had warned him that there would be other musical instruments during the banquet that would serve as distractions.   
When he had finished, he looked again at his tutors for their verdict.

“It would have been beneficial to have more time to practice, highness. However, one has to admit your Old Phthian is beautiful. It might prove your saving grace.”

After Machaon left, Podalirius beckoned Patroclus over.  
“Tonight is nothing to fret over, your highness. Yes, it’s important to make a good impression to the court, and to King Peleus. But you will have other chances, and if it doesn’t go well tonight, it’s not the end of the world. My brother can make things sound more dire than they actually are. Just try to stay on rhythm, it’s what people will notice most.” He patted Patroclus on the shoulder.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Later that night, Briseis did her best to make Patroclus as presentable as possible. Royal banquets were different from other events Patroclus had attended, they were occasions to put oneself on display, the places where courtiers and courtesans did most of their social climbing. Machaon had even spoken with Briseis to ensure she knew what to do. She had chosen a green robe for him, with gold borders and a matching sash. It was fancier than anything Patroclus had worn back home in Opus. She braided his hair so that the gold diadem he wore would flatter his head shape more. At last, she stood back and examined her work.

“Go look in the mirror, Patroclus.”

Patroclus stood and went over to the wall-length mirror at the side of the room. He looked… regal. Princely, even, if not beautiful. He tried to smile at Briseis’ reflection behind him.

“I don’t look like myself.”

“You look like Patroclus, Royal Consort of Prince Achilles,” Briseis replied.

It was enough.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

He had a hard time keeping his composure at the banquet, catching himself as he began to fidget. There was plenty of food and wine, but no one seemed to eat. The air was weighed down with conversations, buzzing in Patroclus’ ear, reminding him of his wedding day when he had stepped out before the gates that would lead him to his fate. Except this was more compressed, claustrophobic, even. He didn’t know where to look, without catching the eye of some noble, who would take it as a sign to confront him with small talk or court gossip. He knew Machaon was somewhere in the background, ever observant, but there was no way he could sidle up to the ambassador now. He was on his own.

He saw Achilles at the other side of the room, surrounded as always by friends and hopeful courtiers. Achilles had actually shown up late, striding into the grand hall and immediately attracting a flock of admirers. The king didn’t seem too bothered, and Achilles eventually made his way to the main table, sliding into the seat between his father and Patroclus. He did not spare Patroclus a glance, beckoning at a servant to fill his wine cup.

“It would do no harm to show up on time one of these days, Achilles,” King Peleus remarked.

Patroclus had to crane his neck to see the king, but Peleus did not appear to be upset. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he looked at Achilles. 

Achilles shrugged. “I never seem to miss anything, father.”  
\----------------------------------------------------

After the feasting, couches were brought out for the king and his guests to lounge on as each performer for the night took turns entertaining the guests. It was almost Patroclus’ turn, and he had started to break out into a sweat. He wished he could see Machaon, but the ambassador was very good at blending in with the crowd. 

Patroclus had finally gotten a glimpse at Eudoros son of Echekles, whose family was the richest in all Phthia next to the king. His heart sank when the young man had approached Achilles earlier, and even shared his couch as they talked. Eudoros was beautiful and charming, but even more so, he seemed to have Achilles’ attention and that of the king’s. Patroclus was but invisible next to him, sitting alone on his own couch, Achilles having not looked his way at all that night. It was Patroclus’ luck that Eudoros did not perform, or he was sure it would have sucked all the courage from him. 

After a young nobleman had finished with his ballad, Patroclus rose and bowed to the king as gracefully as he could.  
“If it pleases you, my king, and my lord husband,” he inclined his head at Achilles, who had fallen silent.  
“I wish to perform the Phaeacian Epic, and hope it is an acceptable attempt.”

Peleus seemed surprised, but he beamed at Patroclus in approval.  
“I am honored, Patroclus.” 

He signaled at the musicians to start, and Patroclus took a deep breath, willing away the anxiousness that would make him stutter and wreck the whole thing. He forced himself to look around him as he began, standing straight and catching the eyes of his audience, keeping his voice low and relaxed at the introduction. Eudoros stared at him, and he stared back, allowing the sounds of music to fade into the background as he followed his own beat, the one Podalirius had taught him to channel towards the back of his mind so that he would never lose his step. He did as Machaon had instructed him, how any bard worth watching would capture the attention of his audience by speaking to each one as if he told the story for them alone.

It was then that he felt Automedon’s familiar gaze on him, steady and intent, and he imagined he spoke to Automedon alone, the two of them in the hallway where the latter had found him practicing. He turned, increasing his pace and volume as he reached the exciting bits of the tale, then slowly fell back to the calmer, repressed tones of the conclusion, and there he saw him. 

Automedon nodded once, and Patroclus continued, finishing in time with the music.  
He had stayed on rhythm the entire time, and he hadn’t forgotten the words. He let out a breath of relief.

The king looked pleased.  
“None other than a true Phthian could tell the Phaeacian Epic so eloquently, Patroclus. You truly have a way with the old language.”

“I thank you, my lord.”   
He bowed again, and returned to his seat, but Achilles beckoned him over.

“I did not know you knew Old Phthian,” Achilles commented quietly.

“I have been learning, my lord,” Patroclus replied.

Achilles did not say anything for a while.

“It was done beautifully,” he finally responded, squeezing Patroclus’ hand.   
“You must perform for me again, when I play the lyre.”

Patroclus grinned. “I would like that.”


	6. Chapter 6

The past few weeks had been spent with Machaon and Podalirius. Just when Patroclus thought he knew enough about the Phthian court, they proved him wrong. There was always something more to remember, some noble family crest to memorize, the different scribal signatures for each member of the royal family. And of course, there was always more of the palace to explore. 

Patroclus had yet to venture outside the wing where his and Achilles’ bedchambers were, and the study room Podalirius liked to use for their language and diplomacy lessons. He had walked past the barracks many times, on the way to the Great Hall where larger official ceremonies were carried out, and the more intimate throne room where audiences with the king were held. 

During this time he had received many invitations to visit with various nobles who had close ties with the king. Machaon had spent an hour lecturing him on how to judge which invitations to accept and decline.

“You may be inexperienced in these matters, your highness, but it will be up to you to utilize your influence in court wisely. In your position as consort to the Crown Prince, you will be able to help or hinder persons of lower rank. They see you now as a foreigner, unknowing of the ways of court, but you must make it clear from the beginning that you know your place. It will win you respect in the eyes of the nobility.”

Machaon was pacing the room, his maroon ambassador’s robe making swooshing sounds against the tiled floor. Patroclus examined the scrolls once more, each bearing a different seal stamp. He paused when he saw the one he had been dreading.

“This one’s from Eudoros.”

Machaon glanced over, nonplussed.  
“It is most likely a token of goodwill, highness. Unfortunately, you will not have much of a choice but to accept the offer. One does not simply turn down such a gesture from a man as high-born as Eudoros Echeklides, not even the Crown Prince’s consort.”

“You’ve said before that he could marry into the royal family one day.”

“His family has contributed funds to the king’s army for generations. It was public knowledge that they were vocal in their support of Peleus’ campaign against the north, when the decision was made. Echekles has been a trusted advisor and ally of Peleus since the start of his rule. You would be wise to consider Eudoros a worthy rival, highness.”

“I know. And it seems he has the upper hand.”

“You have the upper hand, Menoetiades. Do not forget that you are closest to the prince, and the alliance with Opus is not to be taken lightly. Do you not realize that Eudoros’ position places him in as precarious a situation as yourself? You are two halves of the same coin, and you can keep it that way. He is from a wealthy and powerful family, but unlike you, he has had time to make enemies. You still have the advantage of choosing your allies.” 

Machaon narrowed his eyes at Patroclus.  
“And by allies, highness, I do not mean Automedon son of Diores.”

Patroclus started. Machaon looked back at him, in an almost resigned manner.

“I…” Patroclus stammered. “He is an old friend of Achilles’, Machaon.”

“He is a commoner, as much of a rising star he seems to be in the military. The court and the military are to be treated separately, your highness. The military is the domain of the future king. You, on the other hand, will do best to stay out of those affairs.”

“I’m not trying to meddle in any military affairs, Machaon. I’ve just… made a friend.”

“A friend with no influence? No connections? No, your highness. That will not do.”

Patroclus felt the heat rushing into his face. It was true that he had been seeing a lot of Automedon lately. The latter seemed to be there whenever he found himself alone.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I am to be made Captain of the Guard,” Automedon announced quietly, as they walked together to the Great Hall.

“I thought you were to become a general?” Patroclus queried.  
He had found Automedon much easier to talk to since the night of the banquet, when he had performed the epic. Much of their conversation involved Patroclus’ lessons, and Automedon’s anecdotes of previous banquet nights at the palace.

“I am. Well, it is the plan, I suppose. But Captain Menesthius is retiring, and Achilles recommended me for the job. I think the king was on the edge about it, he’d had someone else in mind, for sure. Yet, he agreed.”

“Are you… do you wish to become Captain of the Guard?”

“It would mean staying at the palace more often. And part of my responsibilities will be overseeing the protection of the royal family.” Automedon winked.  
“Including you.”

Patroclus looked away. “And, the prince, of course.” 

There was a moment’s pause.

“But, you didn’t answer my question. Is it what you want?”

Automedon sighed, stopping so that he and Patroclus were face to face.  
“Patroclus… your highness.” He grimaced.  
“My entire life has been governed by my achievements in the army, just as my father before me. It does not matter what I want, and I think you know how that feels better than anyone else.”

The admission struck Patroclus like a tide of cold water. He had never guessed Automedon thought about what things were like for him. Here the lieutenant was, suggesting they were alike, that they understood one another. It was something he had never encountered, not in Opus, or Phthia.

“You can choose. You could say no, if it wasn’t what you wanted.”

“What I want is to serve my king and my country. If I am to be general one day, then the gods have willed it. But now, it seems a different path has been forged for me.”

“I never took you as a devout man.”

“Patroclus, what I mean to say is that I would be honored to become Captain of the Guard.”

They looked at one another, then Patroclus offered a smile, which Automedon returned.

“I would like to speak with you more often,” Automedon admitted, reaching out and placing a hand on Patroclus’ shoulder.

Patroclus stopped himself from looking around, feeling imaginary Machaon-like eyes burning the back of his skull.

“As would I, Automedon. I feel we have become friends.”

Automedon cocked his head to one side, a mannerism that Patroclus had become familiar with in the past few days.  
“Yes. I suppose we are.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus had grown accustomed to retiring in his own chambers lately. He didn’t miss Briseis’ relieved looks whenever no one called for him as she helped him dress down for bed. He felt a pang of guilt that he had been so inefficient at explaining the true nature of his and Achilles’ marital relations, that Briseis still believed Achilles to be something he was not. 

Machaon found it alarming that Achilles had not requested Patroclus’ company more often, but Patroclus was tired of worrying. He had written back to Eudoros accepting his invitation, and his budding friendship with Automedon gnawed its way into his head. Briseis seemed unconcerned when Patroclus finally voiced his feelings to her.

“This lieutenant, then, he will be responsible for your protection?” she asked, kneading Patroclus’ scalp to help him relax.

“Well, not mine alone. The palace, and the royal family, in its entirety.”

“But you say he is an old friend of the prince.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Then, it is only appropriate that you, consort of the prince, treat his friends as your own. And it is a responsible action to establish rapport with the man who will be in charge of your safety.”

“Machaon says different.”

Brisesis smiled and patted Patroclus’ head.  
“Machaon has not tended to royalty since he was a child, dearest Patroclus. Anyway, I am glad you have found someone to talk to. It can get lonely here.”

“It was lonely in Opus,” Patroclus sighed, slouching in his chair.

“Perhaps. But Phthia is your home now. It will be different.”

Patroclus hesitated, looking over at Briseis as she hummed and readied his bed contentedly.

“He hasn’t, you know… wanted my company, these last few nights. Achilles, that is.”

She didn’t respond for a while. 

“You need not be worried, Patroclus.”

“But that’s a bad sign, isn’t it? Especially since I will need to provide him with an heir.”

“Perhaps he has a concubine. Don’t look so pained, dearest, it is only for the best. You cannot be expected to give him every pleasure. It’s good for newlyweds to spend some time apart.”

“You’re probably right.”  
Patroclus let out a breath, Briseis’ words having consoled him momentarily. 

His chamber was always silent. There were clearly other servants Briseis was in charge of, but they kept out of sight, unlike the bustling about he was used to in his homeland. He had to stop thinking of Opus as home. It was his fatherland, but not his home, not anymore. He was a Phthian now.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, he caught Achilles on his way out of Peleus’ throne room. Noticing him, Achilles grinned.  
“Patroclus!”

“My lord,” Patroclus inclined his head, just short of the bow he would have given the king.

Achilles shook his head and took Patroclus’ hand, placing it in the crook of his elbow.  
“It has been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of your company. Walk with me, won’t you?”

Patroclus nodded, and together they strode towards the palace gardens.  
“I have yet to take you up on your offer, my lord,” he remembered, offering Achilles a teasing smile.

“Offer?” Achilles seemed puzzled.

“You were going to play your lyre for me. I have heard of your skill at music.”

Achilles laughed, a sunny outburst.  
“I fear what you heard might include some gross exaggerations, dear Patroclus. I enjoy the music, and I suppose I’ve gotten quite good at it throughout the years. But I am no master of the arts.”

“Then, we will be equally matched when I recite and you play?”

Achilles’ smile softened. “We will be indeed.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------

They had reached an unfamiliar spot on the palace grounds, where the gardens were lush and thick, less well-groomed than the ones Patroclus had seen before. The trees flowered so heavily they were like vast, white-blossomed drapes shielding Patroclus and Achilles from the sun.

“These are the queen’s gardens,” Achilles remarked, not stopping to admire the hushed beauty as Patroclus did.

“Your mother?” Patroclus inquired, reluctantly.  
He had never heard anyone talk about the queen before, and Podalirius had given a very brief and vague overview of Peleus’ marriage.

“My mother.” 

They walked on, and not a word more was said on the matter. Finally they reached a more inhabited area of the grounds, where newly planted trees had been painstakingly arranged to line the walkway.

“These gardens are yours,” Achilles stated, looking around and back at Patroclus to gauge a reaction.

“For me?” Patroclus asked. “But, why?”

At Achilles’ frown, he quickly corrected himself.  
“I am most grateful, my lord. They are lovely. But what have I done to merit such a gift?”

The question seemed to baffle and amuse Achilles at the same time.  
“You are my consort. Should you not have what every consort in the past has enjoyed? These gardens are your private domain.”

Patroclus suddenly understood. It was a gesture, a token of the prince’s favor. 

Having his own gardens seemed like an ostentatious gift, yet being granted a place in the palace that was officially his was something that would place him above the others at court. Achilles had not been blind, that night at the banquet. He had caught on to Peleus’ approval and knew his consort was to be taken seriously. 

Patroclus had cast his lot. Machaon had been right.


	7. Chapter 7

The day had finally come where Patroclus was to meet Eudoros son of Echekles, face-to-face. His greatest rival, according to Machaon and Podalirius.   
Eudoros had invited Patroclus for a meeting at his house. 

Machaon had tutted and shaken his head when he heard this.  
“Never on your opponent’s home ground, your highness. You will reply immediately and cordially invite him for a reception in your own quarters. Normally one would not have the nerve – but Eudoros clearly knows you’re new to the game. He’s testing the waters.”

The gleam in Machaon’s eye had matched that of a strategist overlooking the map of the battlefield. Patroclus realized Machaon actually enjoyed his job a great deal.

“What if he refuses?”

“He cannot refuse. You are higher-ranked than him, technically speaking. Now, we must go through how you as a consort will hold court and receive guests on your territory. The rules of hospitality in Phthia are not quite what you remember from Opian palace life.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------- 

So here they were, Patroclus waiting on the other side of the screen where he had been informed of Eudoros’ arrival. The infamous Eudoros, who apparently was not shy about taking his place whenever the opportunity arose. 

Patroclus took a deep breath and entered the courtyard outside his quarters to greet Eudoros. The man was not by himself, but Patroclus could immediately tell him apart from the others. He had only gotten a quick glimpse at the banquet, but if it was even possible, Eudoros looked even more distinguished in broad daylight. 

He smiled immediately upon seeing Patroclus, and stepped forward before his companions. He bowed in one graceful sweep, and Patroclus inclined his head in return.

“Patroclus, dearest friend. It gladdens me that we finally meet.” Eudoros’ smile was bright and pleasant, his eyes roamed over Patroclus’ face, searching.

“It is good to see you, Eudoros. I am most thankful you were able to accept my invitation,” Patroclus replied.

‘Never your invitation, but mine.’   
Machaon’s words echoed in his head.  
‘He will address you informally, to show he sees you as an equal. You will match him, but keep your words formal.’

“Of course, of course! How could I not, especially in your own home?”

“Please, have a seat and let us get to know one another. I am most curious about a man so close to the king himself.” Patroclus smiled at Eudoros, hoping he didn’t come across as a complete fool.

‘I hate this,’ he thought.   
‘Playing the part like an actor in a play.’

Eudoros seemed to enjoy it. His smile never ceased, and he stared at Patroclus in what could almost be perceived as genuine affection.  
“Indeed, I could tell you many things about the gifts Phthia has bestowed upon my family. But I’m sure it pales in comparison to the life of an Opian prince.”

“Hardly. Perhaps you could enlighten me on matters I knew little about before.”

“Oh, yet you seem so well-versed already, dear friend. It seems court life has been good to you. I do so want to congratulate you on your marvelous performance the other night. So beautifully done. You are deserving of praise.”

“I thank you. I take it you are a lover of poetry?”

“As all true Phthians are. Surely our prince has accompanied your practice with his musical skills?”

‘Our prince’. Patroclus gritted his teeth and nodded in reply.

“I am, however, a poor match for his skill. He plays as though a professional musician.”

“I doubt it. He must enjoy the company, even if you are a beginner in the Old Phthian way.”

An attendant had served them both cups of wine, and Patroclus hadn’t touched a drop of it. Eudoros swirled the wine in his cup, appearing to admire the ornate design.

“I must extend to you a gift worthy of your hospitality, dear one. Surely you are a lover of beauty. I hope my trinket does not disappoint.” 

Eudoros waved his hand and one of his companions brought forth a decorated chest, which he opened to reveal a set of golden pins, the kind Briseis used to fasten Patroclus’ robes together. They were lovely, with intricate carving and encrusted with blue stones. Machaon had warned Patroclus that the exchange of gifts was not unheard of for a first reception, and that Eudoros would probably seize the chance to show off his wealth.

“You are too kind, Eudoros. There are few things lovelier than your gift. But surely, you will accept a gift from me, your host.” 

Patroclus beckoned his own attendant over with a krater painted in red figures.  
“You must recognize the scene?” 

He watched Eudoros studying the painting on the krater.

“Of course. The exchange between the king of Pylos and the storyteller.”

“A token, then, of my friendship and good faith.”   
Patroclus rose, and Eudoros followed.

“There are few things more precious to me.”   
Eudoros’ smile had waned, but he now threw a level look at Patroclus.

It had been enough to earn Eudoros’ respect, at least.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It went about as well as you could have hoped for, your highness. You did not let him overwhelm or outsmart you. He will see you as a worthy rival, and think twice before his next move.”

“What do I do with these?” Patroclus waved the golden pins at Machaon, who sniffed in disapproval.  
“Such an ostentatious display… taking trivial objects and finding the most elaborate to throw in your face. Yes, it is no doubt the way of the House of Echekles. You must wear it, of course. Let the court know of the good faith between you and Eudoros. It will be in your favor. Sowing good relationships with those close to the king is always wise.”

Patroclus removed the plain brass pins Briseis had carefully tucked into the sides of his robes and replaced them with Eudoros’ golden ones.

“There. I suppose I look fancier?”

“They compliment you well, your highness.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nighttime had approached and Patroclus was in Achilles’ chambers, listening to the sounds of the lyre playing in the otherwise silent space. He gazed sleepily at Achilles’ clever fingers plucking the strings.

“You’ve stopped.”

Patroclus started, looking at Achilles, puzzled.

“You’ve stopped reciting.”

“I… the music has lulled me to near-slumber, it seems,” Patroclus grinned sheepishly.

“I want to hear you while I play. Two beats to the same drum, and all.”

Patroclus sat up, straightening at Achilles’ suddenly stern face.  
“Have I… done something to offend you, my lord?”

Achilles’ brow furrowed, the downward tilt of his mouth furthering still.  
“Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“I could start again. Though I seem to have forgotten where I lost track. Would you mind?”

Achilles sighed and tossed the lyre aside. It landed with a thunk on the mosaic tiles, and Patroclus felt bad to see such a beautiful object treated so crassly.

“Forget it. I’m tired of playing. Especially if you’re not going to recite for me. What is the point, then?” 

Achilles got up and poured himself another cup of wine. Patroclus watched him, confused and wary at the same time. He had never seen Achilles so frustrated before. The prince had always treated him pleasantly, or indifferently, but never with irritation.

“Have you even been continuing your lessons in Old Phthian?”

“I don’t think this is about my Old Phthian,” Patroclus murmured. 

Achilles shook his head angrily.  
“I thought you wanted to impress my father when you performed that night at the banquet. It seems I was wrong.”

“Impress your father, yes. But I wanted to impress you, first and foremost. To show you that I care about the Phthian ways, your history, your home. It was the best way I could do it.”

Patroclus stood and went over to Achilles, seating himself next to him on the long couch near the hearth.   
“Did I not communicate that?”

Achilles narrowed his eyes at Patroclus.   
“If you cared so much about learning Old Phthian, you would be working night and day to perfect your skill. Perhaps you wouldn’t have time to spend with certain captains of the Guard.”

A chill went down Patroclus’ spine. ‘He knows I spend time with Automedon.’

Forcing himself to meet Achilles’ gaze, Patroclus replied.  
“This is what it’s about, then? You think I mean more than friendship towards your old friend, Automedon?”

“I can’t imagine what matter could be so pressing that my consort finds the need to speak with the Captain of the Guard, alone, quite so often.”

“He is a friend to me, my lord. Just as he has been a friend to you, for most of your lives, it seems.” 

Patroclus placed a tentative hand on Achilles’ shoulder, thankful when the prince did not pull away.  
“You know he is loyal to you. He would never attempt to do such a thing. And I would never betray your trust. But we are kindred spirits, and I hope my lord understands. If you want me to stop speaking with him, I will stop.” 

Patroclus hoped, deep down, that Achilles did not command him to do that. He was already feeling exhausted at the half-truths he was spouting at the prince, his husband. But he could not allow Achilles to doubt his faithfulness as a consort.

Achilles stared at him for a long time, and finally, his expression softened. He turned so that he could place his hands on Patroclus’ waist, and leaned forward so their faces were close to one another.

“How could I doubt you, beloved. You must forgive me.”

Patroclus reached up to cup Achilles’ face.  
“No, my lord, forgive me for ever causing you doubt.”

“I insult my good friend by implying such a thing. You are right, Automedon deserves nothing more than my trust.”   
Achilles sighed, rising. “Come to bed.”

They lay together, and Achilles turned to kiss Patroclus gently.  
Patroclus tried to quell the tightening in his gut. He had never felt more confused and uncertain about himself. Here was Achilles, whom he had married, and whose favor held his position in Peleus’ court. Achilles who sometimes did these things, where he spoke words of love and treated Patroclus like a treasured partner, rather than a disposable one. It was not enough to forget the times when he seemed to look right through Patroclus. They were not equals, and they never would be. Patroclus had no idea where he stood with Achilles, except that he should always act as though he loved and respected the prince. And perhaps he did, or he could, someday. But Achilles’ sweet words and gentle touches were not enough to win his love. Even in their most intimate moments, there was something amiss. Achilles did not know him, or understand him.

And Automedon – it was dangerous land to tread on, and Patroclus knew he could never get too close. Automedon knew it too, evidenced by how much less they had seen each other in the past few weeks. Yet Automedon seemed to have burned a hole in the back of Patroclus’ mind, one that was permanent and would not scar over. He was not in love with Automedon – not yet, at least. But he was afraid to be. And he knew it was not something so quickly dismissed if it was worth being afraid of.


	8. Chapter 8

Another morning arrived where Patroclus found himself awakening next to Achilles. Dawn had not yet broken, the room still bathed in the blue of early morning. Patroclus rolled over and pressed himself against Achilles’ warm body. The prince grunted, letting him know he was half-awake.

They rose and breakfasted together, Achilles’ servants bustling around the sitting area connected to his bedchambers, serving hot grains with honey and fresh figs. Achilles leaned back against his chair, watching Patroclus with equal parts attentiveness and indifference, like a cat. Patroclus had gotten used to this side of Achilles; where a month ago his skin would have prickled with self-consciousness, now he simply paid attention to his food and waited for Achilles to break the silence.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a chillier morning than usual, the cold breeze wafting through Patroclus’ thin tunic and robes. He thought of Briseis’ disapproving tuts if she were to see him not dressed for breakfast. Briseis had always kept to a tight schedule, making sure Patroclus was bathed and properly dressed before he started the day’s activities. 

He pulled his robe tighter around him to keep the breeze out. Achilles hadn’t even bothered putting on a tunic, his robe was open at the front so that it exposed his bare torso. He didn’t look the least bit bothered by the chill.

“Patroclus, there is something I must ask of you.”

Patroclus paused, swallowing his food before he answered.  
“What is it, my lord?”

“It has come to my attention that your retinue is incomplete.”

“Hmm?” Patroclus could only wait for Achilles to explain himself.

“You were never properly fitted with a personal guard.”

“Why would I need a guard?”

Achilles looked genuinely taken aback for a second.

“All of the royal consorts had their own guards. My mother, my grandfather’s consorts… and so will you. In fact, I have the perfect candidate in mind.”

“Who do you suggest?” Patroclus puzzled over when Achilles would have had time to interview possible candidates for the position.

“Our good friend, Automedon. Who else?” Achilles grinned, looking pleased with himself.

Patroclus felt his face heat, and took a sip of water to hide it.  
“But, my lord… Automedon is the captain of the Guard. Surely he has far more important responsibilities than to become my… than to follow me around all day!”

Achilles shrugged.  
“I’ve already spoken to Automedon, he has agreed to divide his duties accordingly. After our conversation the other night, I realized there is no better person to be in charge of your safety. I trust Automedon, and I can see you do as well. He has been a good friend to us both.”

Patroclus couldn’t believe the sincerity he was hearing in Achilles’ words.  
“I… well, if it is what you think best, my lord. I am honored that you think of my security.”

Achilles’ eyes lit up at Patroclus’ words, and he grabbed Patroclus’ hand, kissing the knuckles ferociously.  
“There is nothing more important, beloved.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a week since Automedon was assigned to Patroclus’ personal retinue, along with another guardsman by the name of Antilochus. Antilochus was surprisingly younger than Patroclus, although he looked older. He was as tall as Automedon, leaner and of a wiry build, with the face of someone who smiled a lot. Patroclus had not gotten used to having his bodyguards one step behind him at all times. Automedon left in the afternoons for his duties as captain, and was replaced with another highly-ranked guard, Eurypylus. Eurypylus had the look of a seasoned warrior and almost never spoke, but seemed to get along with Antilochus well enough.

They were gathered in the courtyard for the Crocus Festival, an event that celebrated the harvest of the autumn flowers that dried into saffron and were made into the rare yellow dye only the rich could afford to wear. Briseis had held Patroclus’ only yellow garment like it would fall apart at any moment, fastening it as gently as she could with Eudoros’ golden pins. There seemed to be layers and layers of the thin fabric wrapped around Patroclus, bordered with white embroidery. His hair was braided and decorated with gold thread and agate. Both the king and Achilles were adorned even more magnificently, with yellow garments similar to Patroclus’ but of a noticeably higher quality.

Yet, even they did not compete with Eudoros, who had shown up with his attendants dressed from head to foot in the color, each servant wearing almost as much of the fabric as Eudoros himself. Patroclus noticed Antilochus’ jaw drop at the frivolous display. The young guardsman had a small dried crocus flower tucked into his sword belt, as most of the non-aristocracy could only afford to do. 

Patroclus snuck a glance at Automedon, and saw that he too had a crocus flower, tucked into the front of his armor. He saw Patroclus looking and raised an eyebrow. Patroclus quickly turned away, cursing himself for the redness he knew had started on his face.

Automedon had been steadily ignoring Patroclus since he started the job as his personal guard. He still greeted him politely, but other than that they had not exchanged conversation. Patroclus wondered if Automedon was angry that he had to divide his responsibilities between being Captain of the Guard and bodyguard of the royal consort, which was still a respected position but certainly less prolific. 

‘Or maybe he doesn’t want to get too close to me,’ Patroclus thought sullenly. 

Maybe it was for the best. With Antilochus around all the time within earshot, they could hardly act the same around each other as they had before, without attracting unwanted attention.

‘If there really is nothing between us, why would it be dangerous for us to be seen being friendly with each other?’  
Patroclus wished he could approach Automedon about this, but the other man’s distant demeanor dissuaded him from doing so. He was used to Automedon’s easy presence, but this almost felt cold coming from him.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The entertainment had begun, with dancers gathered in a circle before the audience, calling to them to participate. Out of the corner of his eye, Patroclus noticed Eudoros slip out of his chair and head over to the circle. He danced as well as the professionals, his feet light and fast, his movements graceful. He threw his head back and laughed as he linked arms with the women, and he looked more beautiful than Patroclus had ever seen him. Patroclus looked down at his own feet, knowing he himself did not have the talent for dance. He had been so busy studying Old Phthian that he’d requested Machaon to put aside his dancing lessons for the time being.

Pausing in front of Achilles, Eudoros reached out with two arms. Achilles had been leaning back, watching the dance. He shook his head and grinned, grabbing hold of Eudoros’ hands and let himself be pulled into the circle.

Patroclus felt helpless.   
‘It’s alright. It’s only a dance. Eudoros is not going to become consort just by dancing with Achilles once.’ 

He could hear Machaon’s voice in his head.   
‘Your highness, it would have been wise to invite the prince to dance. As royal consort, you had the right to ask him first. Now you have given Eudoros Echeklides a chance he would not have had otherwise. You must learn to anticipate your opponents’ move, your highness.’  
And then a sigh and a disappointed shake of the head.

The air suddenly felt too thick and clammy around him. Patroclus turned to Antilochus, but his bodyguard was being pulled insistently into the circle by a pretty dancing girl. Rather than face Automedon, he slowly got up and wove his way behind the table of honor as inconspicuously as he could. Thankfully, no one was paying attention. Peleus was laughing with his advisors at another table, and the other guests were focused on the dancing. 

He heard footsetps behind him as soon as he was past the gates of the courtyard.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Highness! Patroclus! Where are you going?”

Patroclus turned around and it was Automedon, looking concerned.

“I just needed some air,” Patroclus explained, feeling like an idiot.

“We’re outdoors.”

“Yes. I mean, I just wanted to take a walk. Get away from the… the crowd, for a little bit.”

Automedon was staring at him, looking unconvinced.

Patroclus knew he was red all over, the heat had rushed to his face and seemed to go to his head.   
“Please, don’t mind me. You should enjoy the festivities.”

“It is my duty to escort you wherever you go.”

Patroclus shrugged.   
“I’m going for a walk, then. You’re free to come with me.”

He turned and kept walking, not headed in any particular direction, although his feet took him to the gardens that Achilles had declared were his. The queen’s gardens. He took in a deep breath, gazing up at the trees and their white blossoms, seeming to shield him and provide comfort at the same time. It was peaceful here. The sun had set, leaving the sky lavender and orange behind the shady trees.

“Patroclus?” Automedon’s voice was hesitant.

“It’s alright. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk.” 

Automedon frowned, looking as though he struggled to find the words.

“Look, Achilles asked me to become your guard because he thinks we are friends. He trusts me to be your friend.”

“And we are friends. Aren’t we?”

“It’s not that simple! It’s – of course I want to be your friend, Patroclus. Of course I want to talk to you. But we can’t. Because you are his.”

“Because I am his, we can’t be friends? Does he have a claim on my friendships, then?”

“No!” Automedon sighed and turned his face away.

“Unless I am mistaken, I think you know perfectly well why. It is because you are his, and not mine.”

The words had been spoken. 

Patroclus stared at Automedon, hardly able to believe his own ears.

“It is too dangerous, Patroclus,” Automedon whispered. 

Hesitantly, he stepped forward and took Patroclus’ hands in his.  
“I was beginning to think he suspected, but then he came to me and said I was the only one he could trust to oversee your security. I thought he was testing me, trying to see if I wanted to get close to you. I told him I couldn’t, but I knew many men who were perfectly capable, that I would do everything I could to make sure you had the best - ”

Patroclus kissed him.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Automedon’s, pressing his body against Automedon’s chest, drinking him in. They were still for a second, Automedon in shocked silence.

Then Patroclus felt Automedon’s hands around his face, lips catching his in desperate fervor, almost as though he was air and Automedon a dying man.

They broke apart, gasping, Patroclus clutching at Automedon’s waist, the latter taking a quick look around in case anyone had seen them.

“I know, I know,” Patroclus sobbed when Automedon opened his mouth to speak.  
“We can’t. I know.”

He watched Automedon’s expression falter for a second, their eyes locked, their desire bared for each other’s eyes, the first time they had allowed it to happen.

“I couldn’t say no, Patroclus. He insisted. And I knew… I’ve been so cold to you, and I’m sorry. I never meant for you to think…”

Patroclus leaned their foreheads together. “Please, don’t apologize. I know why.”

They stood like that for a moment, nothing but the sounds of their own breathing, and the quiet wind through the trees.

Reluctantly, Automedon withdrew.   
“We should get back. Achilles will notice you are gone.”

Patroclus nodded. He moved towards the small gateway that led out from the garden, until he felt Automedon’s arms around him again, spinning him back around and claiming his lips in one last frantic kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sex.

For all he tried, Patroclus could not get himself to stay still. He was restless with excitement, with fear, with everything else he had not allowed himself to feel, but now took hold of him like a madness.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had gone back to the festivities, Patroclus returning to his seat and Automedon taking his place behind him. Achilles had still been dancing with Eudoros when they got back, and Patroclus could not mask his relief as he felt Automedon’s gaze on his back. As the celebration came to an end, Achilles came looking for him, flushed from the dancing and noticeably drunk.

“Patroclus! What did you think of my dancing, hmm?”

For a brief moment, Patroclus thought Achilles meant to take him back to his chambers. Then Achilles laughed, clapped Automedon on the shoulder, and motioned for Antilochus to join them.

“You must be tired. You look tired. My friends - ” He put a hand on both Automedon and Antilochus. “See to it that Patroclus doesn’t get lost in the halls on the way back.”

He threw a smirk over his shoulder at Patroclus as he left, which Patroclus thought he meant to be playful, but his charm would not work tonight. Patroclus simply nodded at Antilochus, who smiled and offered him an arm.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

It seemed to take forever for Briseis to unravel the multiple layers of yellow.

“Briseis, a bath, if there is any water left?”

Briseis looked surprised.   
“It must have been some party, highness. It doesn’t look as though you broke a sweat.”

“I would rather be fresh and comfortable for bed.”

“Alright then. There’s still water, why don’t you get in and I’ll have your bedclothes ready.”

He washed away the smells from the festival, careful not to use too much oil. Briseis always slathered him in the stuff before a visit with Achilles, and he would spend the night self-conscious that he smelled too much like a flower for Achilles’ tastes.

He paused for a moment, looking at the bottle of oil and the place between his legs. There was usually a liberal amount of oil next to the bed, but just to make sure, he decided there was no harm in having himself slick and ready in case there was no time.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been sitting in the dark, the sheets clenched around his knees, when the sound came. A rustling at the door, which he got up to open.

“Is it clear?” came Automedon’s whisper.

Patroclus’ hands found his.  
“There’s no one in here. Briseis left hours ago.”

And then they were in each other’s arms, and Patroclus could feel him, feel his want and his need.

Automedon grabbed his arm and led him out of the room.  
The hallways were nearly pitch black, and Patroclus had no choice but to follow blindly. He knew it would be foolishness to have Automedon in his bed, where they could be easily caught, but he had dared to hope.

They took a lesser-known passage that led to the army barracks, but went past it, to the academy where Automedon trained the palace guard.

“This is where you sleep?” Patroclus asked, keeping his voice low.

“This is where I come when I want to be alone.”

They had reached a back room behind the guards’ quarters that appeared to be an old study. There were stairs leading up to the open roof, which overlooked the walls of the palace, but remained hidden from sight.

“It seems, now this is where I come when I want to be alone with you.”

They kissed, and Patroclus quickly shrugged out of his bedclothes. Automedon was still for a moment, simply looking at him, his eyes pensive but warm.

“I wish I had better for you, Patroclus.”

Patroclus shook his head. “Don’t say such things, Automedon. You are all I want.”

This made Automedon smile. He pulled Patroclus closer against him, hands sliding over his sides, his hips, reaching down to caress his legs.

“You know, I’ve wanted you since that day I caught you practicing your lines.”

Patroclus flushed. “You can’t have.”

“I did. I didn’t know it then, but it was inevitable. I couldn’t stop myself, and I can’t stop myself now. So tell me that you’re sure, Patroclus.”

Patroclus reached under Automedon’s tunic and gripped his length, earning a soft intake of breath.   
“I’m sure.”

Then it was a race for them both to be free of their clothing, and Automedon knelt as he kissed his way down Patroclus’ body. His mouth ran over Patroclus’ belly, his hips, and once it reached the inside of his thighs, Patroclus could not stop the shiver.

“Automedon… I am yours. Tonight, every night, I don’t care. If you will have me, I am yours.”

The answer he got was a slow lick up the inside of his thigh, and then Automedon parted his legs and his mouth was on him, kissing and sucking at the sensitive place where Patroclus had only been taken by one man. He let out a small cry as Automedon carefully slipped in a finger, moving it inside him as though testing the waters.

He let Automedon bring him to the floor, so that he was bent over on his knees with Automedon wrapped around his back.

“Look at me, Patroclus.”

Patroclus turned his head so that he locked eyes with Automedon, then gave a startled yelp as Automedon’s hand gripped his member, stroking it at a steady pace. Automedon’s own hardness was poking at Patroclus, right at his entrance, but Automedon seemed in no hurry. He held Patroclus against him, nestling his face in the crook of Patroclus’ neck.

“Automedon…” Patroclus gasped. “Please…”

Automedon simply tilted his chin upwards to kiss him again, deep and long, as if he drew strength from Patroclus’ lips.

“Soon, love. Let me feel you first. I want to feel all of you.”

Patroclus shook his head, grinding his ass against Automedon’s leaking cock, letting it smear all over himself.   
“I want you.”

There seemed to be a flame lit in Automedon’s eyes as he gripped Patroclus hips; he thrusted forward, and then he was inside him, deep.

“Fuck,” Automedon breathed, his fingernails digging into Patroclus’ hips, then he released them and moved to stroke up his sides.  
“Alright, my love?”

Patroclus’ breathing was shallow, he took Automedon’s hand and squeezed it.  
At this silent answer, Automedon started to move. Patroclus looked back at him, spreading his legs wider, their fingers were entwined.

Patroclus could feel the pressure building as Automedon entered him over and over again, stretching and filling him until his own cock was wet with the beginnings of spend. One thrust touched a spot in him that wracked his entire body, made his head buzz with the pleasure it invoked.

“Patroclus,” Automedon whispered into his ear.

“Yes, yes, gods, yes,” Patroclus could only cry, clamping a hand over his mouth and biting his knuckles as his thighs began to shake.

Automedon steadied him, wordlessly thrusting deeply, leaning forwards to cover Patroclus’ hair and neck with kisses.

“Gods, I am going to – Patroclus!”

“Inside me,” Patroclus murmured at him, looking into his eyes.

And then Automedon’s body jerked, his grip on Patroclus tightening painfully as he came with a soundless cry.

His breath was ragged as he pulled Patroclus into his lap, head leaning back as though drowning in his own pleasure. He took Patroclus’ hand, wrapping it around Patroclus’ still-hard cock, and his fingers filled the gaps between Patroclus’ fingers.

“For me, Patroclus.” Their hands stroked Patroclus’ length, the pace quickening.

“Come for me!” and the pressure inside Patroclus released, his vision white-hot as his body strained, feeling every last bit of his desire release.  
He groaned, his weight slackening against Automedon, who held him tighter and pressed a kiss against his shoulder.

He would have given all the world for them to stay like that, together.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some hints of physical abuse, and brief mention of mpreg.

Patroclus was in the midst of following Podalirius’ instructions on the Pelasgian folk dance when Machaon stormed in, Briseis at his heels looking panicked. 

They had been attempting the part of the dance that involved quite a few leaps, meant to emulate the satyrs in their forest festivities. Podalirius had insisted it was the most popular festival dance in Phthia. Ever since the Crocus Festival where Eudoros had danced so beautifully, Podalirius had convinced Patroclus to stop putting aside his dancing lessons. 

The thing was, Podalirius himself was not much of a dancer, either. He could recite every single step in all the court dances known to Phthians, and provide in-depth critique of other dancers’ movements; but his own attempts were awkward, enthusiastic though they were. Patroclus was having a lot of trouble keeping up. 

“What are you doing? Stop it at once!” Machaon ordered. 

“Oh good, brother, you’re here. Do you mind demonstrating the satyr leaps for the Pelasgian folk dance? I was just trying to show Patroclus here, but I’m afraid -” 

“Never mind that,” Machaon snapped. 

Patroclus and Podalirius both took a proper look at the ambassador then. 

Patroclus didn’t think he had ever seen Machaon look so flustered. The man was never short of composed and collected. Right then, he looked a combination of irritated and worried. He was even sweating a little. Right behind him, Briseis crossed her arms, frowning in consternation. Something was definitely wrong.

“What is it?” Patroclus finally asked, sharing a glance with Podalirius. 

Machaon sighed. “Your brother Myrtus is here.” 

He rubbed the area between his brows, as if chasing off a headache.   
“He arrived with a small group of delegates from Opus this morning. The king and Prince Achilles are receiving him in the audience hall as we speak.”

Patroclus fought off the growing perturbation that seemed to pool in the pit of his stomach. Myrtus. He hadn’t thought of his brother since he left Opus. There had been word that his father had chosen heirs among the sons of his lesser consorts,but Patroclus certainly hadn’t expected one of them to come here. And for what purpose? 

“What do you think he wants?” he dared to ask. 

Machaon glanced over his shoulder at Briseis, who caught his eye and went over to Patroclus, taking him by the arm. 

“Your highness, I did not think this would happen. I did not think… I was sure your father would send news if he was to send an envoy. Especially so soon.” Machaon’s expression was cloudy as he said this. 

“Come, Patroclus,” said Briseis, tugging on his arm.   
“You must get dressed. The king will expect you to greet your brother.” 

“Machaon? What does he want?” Patroclus pressed further. 

Machaon shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry right at this moment, your highness. As much as I wish we could brief before meeting your brother, I don’t think he will try anything at a formal audience. We will discuss this later.” He managed a quick smile, though it came out more like a grimace. Machaon trying to be comforting? Patroclus wondered exactly what was at stake here. 

Briseis did a quick job getting Patroclus dressed in more formal garments. Without time to bathe, she resorted to brushing his hair out and braiding it with gold thread as fast as she could. Patroclus noticed she had chosen one of his best tunics, a cerulean silk embroidered with gold patterns and tiny red beads. Over this, she helped him into a matching robe and tied a sash around his waist, fastening it with Eudoros’ golden pins.

Briseis had known Myrtus, back in Opus. She was going to so much trouble to make Patroclus look good, and it only added to his worry.   
***  
He entered the hall, for once alone, without even Automedon and Antilochus to accompany him. Peleus was seated on his throne, Achilles at his side, looking as indifferent as was usual for him. 

There in front of the dais, speaking to them, was Myrtus. 

Patroclus paused for a moment, taking in the scene. He hadn’t thought he would ever see Myrtus again. A flurry of emotions swept over him; there was no love lost between them, yet there was a surge of… hope? A flicker of warmth at the familiarity of someone from home, proof that his father had not forgotten him. 

Myrtus was the son of his father’s favorite concubine. They had grown up together, in a way, but there had always been a separation. The knowledge that Myrtus was illegitimate, that he was not a royal son like Patroclus, had forced him into the shadows. He was younger than Patroclus, but both looked and acted older. He had always been a favorite at court in Opus, something he worked to his advantage as long as Patroclus had known him. Being a bastard, Myrtus had been forced to utilize his cunning and quick wit to stay in King Monoetius’ favor. 

And here he was, addressing Peleus and Achilles with the same confidence Patroclus remembered, his gaze cool and assessing. The three men looked up as Patroclus entered the hall, trying to keep his expression neutral and passive. Patroclus bowed first to Peleus, inclined his head at Achilles, then turned to face his brother. 

Peleus nodded in approval, motioning to Myrtus to step closer. 

“You must be happy to see your family again, Patroclus,” Achilles remarked. Patroclus could not read him. 

By then Myrtus had approached, his face stretched in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked at Patroclus for a moment, then moved in to embrace him. Patroclus had never hugged Myrtus in his life. He tried not to stiffen as he returned the embrace, tried not to back away too quickly when it was over. 

“Brother, I see you are in good health,” Patroclus offered. 

Myrtus raised an eyebrow, looking almost impressed. The old Patroclus would have had a thousand questions, would have struggled to hide his anxiety at Myrtus’ arrival. 

It was not appropriate to admit the visit was a surprise, and if there was one thing Machaon had accomplished, it was to ensure the proper way to behave and react had been effectively drilled into Patroclus’ skull for the rest of his life. 

“I see that you are as well, Patroclus. It will be a comfort to our lord father. He was most anxious to hear tidings.” Myrtus never took his eyes off Patroclus, and his piercing gaze was too much like their father’s. Don’t look away, don’t you dare look away, Patroclus admonished himself. 

Peleus was beaming, apparently oblivious to the unspoken words between the brothers, though Achilles had undoubtedly noticed and watched them wordlessly, his expression considering. Patroclus sometimes forgot Achilles had no siblings, none to love or resent. 

“Well, we must celebrate your arrival with a feast, Prince Myrtus! A reunion between two brothers is not to be taken lightly.” Peleus’ voice rang out across the hall. They bowed to him, and were dismissed. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He wants to see you before the festivities tonight,” Machaon announced later, unsurprisingly. The ambassador was pacing the length of Patroclus’ quarters, while Podalirius eyed him nervously and Briseis fussed over several different tunics she had laid out on the bed. 

“He’s here to check up on me then?” Patroclus had already guessed this. 

He hadn’t realized how much time had passed since the first day he had set foot in Phthia. Between the wedding, the return of Peleus’ troops from the northern campaign, and the Crocus Festival, it was getting close to a year. 

A year. And still no sign of an heir. That was why Myrtus was here. 

“The alliance isn’t secured until I have fulfilled my obligations as Royal Consort. Myrtus is here to see that through.” Not a surprising revelation, but still. It hadn’t crossed his mind that his father would push that far. 

Machaon nodded approvingly in response.   
“It was what I suspected, your highness. The fact that it was Myrtus your father sent shows he is getting impatient, but I can’t imagine what warranted it. King Peleus has shown no inclination of overturning the alliance. And the year is not yet up.” 

Patroclus could not help but think perhaps Myrtus had something to do with it. With Patroclus out of the picture, Myrtus and his other half-brothers would be in competition for the throne. Myrtus would be reaching for every resource he had - including taking the initiative to oversee his father’s political alliances and relationships with other kingdoms. He had always been calculating, in that way. 

“I will speak with him,” Patroclus sighed. 

Briseis held up a brilliantly decorated robe for him to wear, but he shook his head. 

“I will see Myrtus as I am.” 

He went to the doorway to tell Antilochus to summon Myrtus to his quarters. 

\------------------------------

Machaon, Podalirius, and Briseis had left the room, but Patroclus knew Antilochus and Automedon were standing outside, separated only by the wall, when Myrtus arrived. It gave him some small comfort. He had grown rather fond of Antilochus, whose cheery disposition often brightened the mood, and Automedon. What was there to say? Their love took root, quietly, and in the dark, but it was there. Each unspoken word and gesture passed between them when they met each other’s eyes as they walked the hallways, and Automedon would smile to himself, some secret smile only Patroclus knew. 

\---  
The look Myrtus gave him was long and assessing. There was a new light in his eyes, one Patroclus could not identify. Patroclus suddenly felt vulnerable in his thin shift and dressing gown, fresh from the bath, his hair loose. He knew he looked weak and foolish to Myrtus, but forced himself to sit up straight and look his brother in the eye. 

“You can tell him there’s nothing to worry about. Peleus is satisfied. There is no threat to our alliance.” Patroclus didn’t waste time, knowing Myrtus hadn’t come to exchange pleasantries. They were no longer in the audience hall, and this was his brother. He was a Royal Consort of Phthia, and could speak as he pleased. 

Myrtus smiled a little, and looked around the room. He ignored Patroclus in that infuriating way of his, part of why they had never been close. 

“I trust he’s been fucking you well enough?”

It was so much like Myrtus to say the most crass thing that came to mind, and Patroclus didn’t know why it still worked to catch him off guard. He stiffened, and cursed himself when Myrtus saw and threw a lazy smirk at him. 

Myrtus gestured at the ornate finery of the chambers.   
“I can tell father you’re being kept here with trappings good enough for a favorite whore. That will satisfy him, I’m sure.” 

Patroclus shook his head. 

“Don’t speak to me like that.” 

Myrtus didn’t acknowledge that statement, striding around to examine the tapestries on the walls. 

“Why are you here?” Patroclus finally asked. “Did you convince him that I’m not doing my duty? I haven’t even been given a year, Myrtus, you can’t expect there to be a child just yet.” 

Myrtus was beginning to look bored. “If you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, I shouldn’t have to convince father of anything.” 

Patroclus sighed. “You know I understand how important this alliance is. Father sent me here, after all. At least tell him I’m doing my best.” 

“I wanted to see how you were living, Patroclus. Of course, you’ve never wanted for anything, have you? Even poor Briseis had to trek all the way over here to wait on you hand and foot.”

“Is that all you came here to say?” 

“We’ll have plenty of time to talk. Better save your appetite for tonight.” Myrtus turned and left the room.   
Always had the last word, that one. Patroclus quelled his fears of whatever else Myrtus had left unsaid. The conversation was obviously not over, but knowing Myrtus, he would want to keep Patroclus on the edge of his seat, unguarded and nervous, until he could control the conversation again. 

Patroclus looked down at his hands, which had started to go numb. It didn’t matter whose consort he was, the fact that he didn’t belong to the royal house of Opus anymore. Myrtus would always have some sort of power over him, the product of years of contempt and Patroclus’ lack of composure. He didn’t notice Antilochus peeking into the room. 

“Um, your highness?” 

Patroclus started. “Oh, Antilochus. What is it?” 

Antilochus met his eyes, and the look of concerned discomfort on the young guard’s face made Patroclus’ stomach clench in embarrassment, at the likelihood that Antilochus had heard most of the exchange. If Antilochus had heard it … Patroclus’ thoughts drifted to the other man who had stood outside the entire time and would know too. 

“Would you like me to tell Briseis and Machaon that they can come back in?” Antilochus supplied. He had quickly schooled his expression into a neutral smile, probably noticing Patroclus’ unease. 

“Yes, thank you.” Patroclus sighed in relief when Antilochus left.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peleus had spared no expense with the banquet that night. There was the usual music, courtiers, platters of food and ever-flowing wine. Podalirius had been excited at the prospect that Patroclus could try out his dancing skills, but Patroclus was really not up for it. 

Briseis had dressed him even more splendidly than she had for Myrtus’ reception. It was making a point, Patroclus thought. Peleus was obviously seizing a chance to display Phthia’s wealth to their new ally, and Patroclus was a part of it too, dressing more ostentatiously than he ever had in Opus. Briseis knew what she was doing. Not for the first time, he felt a burst of gratitude at her constant looking out for him. 

The feast passed by in a haze, and Patroclus quietly excused himself as soon as he could. He needed Automedon, suddenly, in that moment.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Automedon was waiting for him in their spot, as though he had guessed at Patroclus’ thoughts. The cloud of worry that had been hanging over Patroclus since Myrtus’ arrival melted away as soon as he saw the other man. He grinned and leapt into Automedon’s arms, burying his face in the broad chest. 

Looking up, he met Automedon’s apprehensive gaze. 

“Are you alright?” Automedon asked, slowly. 

Patroclus looked at him, unwilling to let his hands fall away.

“I will be. Don’t worry about me.”

He tried smiling, but it didn’t work when Automedon’s bearing did not change. 

His eyes were suddenly wet, and alarmed, he pulled at his sleeve to dry them before Automedon could see. 

But of course, he saw. 

His brow deepening in a frown, Automedon reached out to cradle Patroclus’ jaw, fingertips brushing against his ear. 

“If there was something to make you feel better, Patroclus.”

“No, no. I said not to worry.” A tear escaped then, and Automedon brushed it away. 

“You didn’t deserve any of the cruel words he said.” 

Why couldn’t Patroclus stop crying? He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t wanted Automedon to know what had passed between him and his brother. Yet Automedon knowing seemed to release a great pressure that had built up in his chest, one that was bone-deep. 

He’d never spoken to anyone about this, not even Briseis, who was cautious and tense around Myrtus but did not have the power to speak out of her place. She had known, tried to shield Patroclus from the solitude of his own home, the spite that had colored his relations with people who were supposed to be his family. 

It was this solitude that followed him wherever he went, would not let him go even when he had made something of a home in a foreign land. Looking at Automedon, he felt for the first time a stillness in his spirit, like a calming of the waves when the storm clouds cleared. 

Patroclus took Automedon’s hands in his, ignoring the tears. 

“No, I didn’t deserve it. But it doesn’t matter anymore. He thinks I’m alone here, and I’m not.” 

“No you’re not, love. I would not let you be alone.” Automedon allowed a small smile then, brushing Patroclus’ hair behind his ear so he could place a kiss on his neck. 

Patroclus leaned against the other man, using Automedon’s sleeve to wipe away the last of his tears, and swore to himself silently, that these would be the last Myrtus would ever draw out from him.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
In the morning, Achilles summoned Patroclus to his quarters. Myrtus had made preparations to leave for Opus, and it seemed Achilles would not let him go before having a chance to speak with them both. 

His expression was sober as Patroclus arrived, Myrtus not far behind.   
“I thought we should have a chance to talk before you head back to your homeland,” Achilles stated, lounged casually in his sitting room. He hadn’t bothered to dress at all, still in his robe, the one he had worn on their wedding night. 

Myrtus looked torn between irritation and wariness at the prince. Achilles was everything Myrtus was not, after all. The fact that Achilles was able to summon them at whim without even having to get up spoke volumes of his power. 

“It is most considerate of you, lord husband,” Patroclus replied pleasantly, glancing at Myrtus. 

Achilles threw a smile in Patroclus’ direction but did not take his eyes off Myrtus. 

“It doesn’t go unnoticed that you showed up here unannounced. My men have spoken to Machaon, the ambassador for your king, and he claims he had no word of your impending arrival. Tell me, Prince Myrtus …”

Patroclus caught Myrtus’ inward wince at Achilles’ use of prince. Myrtus was not a prince, not really. He had no royal titles, even now after their father had decided to look towards a new line of succession. Achilles knew and was using it to disarm him. 

It made Patroclus look at Achilles then, really look at him. Until then, everything he had seen of Achilles had been his good nature, his lazy confidence, his celebrity status among his men. But in that moment, Patroclus caught a glimpse of the astute mind behind Achilles’ easy charm. 

“... is it not enough that the ambassador advises Patroclus?” 

Myrtus seemed taken aback. 

“My lord … I have no quarrel with Machaon’s abilities as an advisor to your consort. I am here on behalf of my father, who wishes to ensure the friendship between Opus and Phthia is as strong as ever.” 

“Have we done anything to suggest otherwise?” Achilles was smiling now, but the look in his eyes hinted at a need to tread carefully. 

“Of course not, your highness. I did not mean to imply such a thing. Phthia is our ally, and I am sure my father will be pleased to hear of this.” 

“Wonderful. Bring your father my regards, then. And I suppose Patroclus will want you to take a message to him as well?” Achilles turned towards Patroclus expectantly. 

“I … Well, I didn’t think of -” Patroclus started, but Achilles abruptly rose from his seat. 

“I will give you a moment to speak alone. My father has arranged for a party to send Myrtus off, and you have time until then.” His arm brushed Patroclus’ waist as he walked by, leaving the room. 

Myrtus slowly rounded on Patroclus.

“What message do you wish me to take to our father?” his voice was tight, the undercurrents of rage not quite concealed. 

“Nothing. I don’t have anything to say to father.” Patroclus frowned, looking at the doorway Achilles had left through, suddenly at a loss on what this meeting had been for except as a display of power and to unsettle Myrtus. 

“So now you’re not in Opus anymore, you go running off to whisper to your prince as soon as my back is turned?” 

“I haven’t -” Patroclus began to protest, only to have Myrtus cut him off. 

“You seem to be gravely mistaken about something, Patroclus. All those years in our father’s house should have taught you, but I suppose you’ve forgotten.”

Myrtus crept closer then, so close their faces were almost touching. 

“Being married to that princeling does not make you worth anything.”

Patroclus froze, whatever armor he had conjured to shield himself against Myrtus’ attacks quickly dissolving. He steeled himself, meeting Myrtus’ eyes. 

“And you think running errands for father will make you king?”   
\---  
The blow was swift, and threw Patroclus off-balance. His head snapped to one side, but he didn’t let himself fall. He collected himself and straightened to face Myrtus again, however sore his face was, heat rushing up as the blood trickled from his nose and lip. 

Myrtus approached him again but Patroclus didn’t flinch. He would not fight back, had never fought back when Myrtus got like this. But now Myrtus would have to do it while looking him in the eye. 

“You won’t lay your hands on me again.”

Myrtus sneered and caught Patroclus around the throat, bringing him close to whisper in his ear. 

“I will do as I please. The day will come when you are on your knees before me, and don’t you forget it.” He tightened his hold so Patroclus was near-choking, then released him. He left without a word. 

Patroclus steadied his breaths, finding a chair to sit in. Myrtus would not come again, he was sure. Whatever had happened with Achilles had humiliated him enough to resort to violence. 

Mulling over this, Patroclus slowly rose to go back to his own chambers. He would not attend the sending off party, he decided. Turning to leave through one of the side entrances, he froze to see Achilles leaning against a pillar, watching him, head tilted to one side, his gaze silently appraising.


	11. Chapter 11

“Do your people tell stories about the stars?” Automedon asked one night, as they lay entangled in the sheets of the makeshift bed he had laid out. 

Patroclus, who had been half-asleep with his head buried in the crook of Automedon’s neck, looked up groggily. 

The night was a clear one, constellations gleaming at them from above. If Patroclus gazed out long enough with his eyes half-closed, it looked like millions of eyes winking at him in mischief, whatever it was stars actually did. 

“Mm. There’s one that my mother used to tell me.”

Automedon shifted to face him, the soft moonlight falling over his hair, casting his face in shadow so only his eyes could be seen staring. 

“Your mother? You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“She died when I was little. I barely remember her.” Patroclus paused.   
“But the story … I remember that.” 

He craned his neck then, trying to find the pair of warriors in the sky. It took him more than a moment. There hadn’t been much time for stargazing in Opus, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten how to find them. 

“Do you see? Glaucus and Diomedes.” He smiled.   
“Hello again, you two.” 

Automedon gave him an odd look, turning his head to squint at the constellation. 

“Those are the brothers. One died, the other became king. He convinced the gods to put his brother’s soul in the sky, so he could always see him when he wanted. When he died, the gods put his soul there too so they could be together. It’s a classic,” Automedon stated. 

Patroclus snuggled closer against Automedon’s side. 

“You Phthians have it all wrong. They’re not brothers at all. They’re Glaucus and Diomedes, the two warriors who met on the battlefield and exchanged armor. Theirs was a friendship that lasted through the ages.” 

“Is that so?” Automedon was smiling now, his fingers tracing a pattern on Patroclus’ hip. 

“I always liked that story. It tells us that … even two people who are strangers, who should be enemies and hate each other, can find some sort of peace.” 

Automedon nuzzled Patroclus’ ear, leaned forward and kissed the lobe. 

“What about you and I? Do you think we’ve found peace?”

Patroclus dove forward so their mouths met, chests pressed against one another. 

“Whatever it is …” he pressed kisses down Automedon’s neck and over his collarbones. 

“I think the world seems a little less strange with you in it.”

That made Automedon grin, the kind that broke out over his entire face, making Patroclus’ heart stutter just so. 

Years later, he would still remember it as the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Word had gotten out of an embassy from Troy. As Peleus worked to secure the northern border against the Trachians, alliances with other kingdoms became ever more important. 

Patroclus was sitting in his room one night, trying to mend a small hole in his robe. It was his favorite green robe and he had torn it while walking in the queen’s gardens with Achilles. He didn’t want to bother Briseis with such a trivial task. 

Antilochus knocked on the door then; Patroclus recognized the tentative trio of taps, Antilochus always did that, whereas Automedon would knock once and enter without being told. 

“Come in, Antilochus,” Patroclus called, squinting as he tried to knot off the thread. 

“Your highness -” Patroclus had never quite gotten Antilochus to address him by name, the way Briseis, Machaon and Podalirius did. 

“The king summons you to his quarters.” 

Patroclus started. Peleus?   
As far as he knew, he had never been called to speak to Peleus alone. The only times they ever saw each other was during official events. Peleus seemed to like him well enough, and was generous with his praise whenever Patroclus performed in Old Phthian at the banquets. 

“Of course. I will go at once.” 

Wondering what the king wanted, Patroclus went with Antilochus and one of Peleus’ guardsmen to his quarters.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The main sitting room at the entrance of the king’s chambers was even more lavish than any in the palace Patroclus had seen so far. There was a brazier in the heart of the room, in front of which Peleus reclined on rich furs. 

The king was in his bedclothes, and as he looked up with a nod of greeting, Patroclus thought of how different he was from Achilles. Even in a casual environment, Peleus conducted authority and managed to look regal. Looking closely, he was not as old as he seemed. The lines of his face were the results of a lifetime of laughter. 

“I thank you for accepting my summons, Patroclus.” With a wave of his hand, Peleus had a servant pour cups of wine for them. 

“Of course, my king. I came as soon as I could. Is something the matter?”

Patroclus could not keep the worry off his face; Peleus saw it and smiled reassuringly. 

“There is something I wish to discuss with you, Patroclus. Since your arrival at court, I have noticed the effect your presence has on my son.”

Patroclus tried not to fidget. So Peleus wanted to discuss his responsibilities as a consort. He had known this day would come, but Peleus had never seemed dissatisfied before. 

“The … effect, my lord?” 

Peleus raised a hand, both to silence and soothe.   
“I hope I am not giving you cause for worry, Patroclus. I have been very impressed by the way you carry yourself in my court. Achilles … has not always been easy. When your father agreed to send you here, I had my qualms that the match would turn out more difficult than expected. He was a spirited boy, you see, one who cannot be tamed. I worried that a foreign prince raised in a court so different from ours would not make a suitable consort for Achilles. But … that was not so.” 

Peleus smiled at Patroclus, the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling further. 

“Thank you, my lord. But … I don’t think you give Achilles enough credit. He has been nothing but kind to me.” 

Patroclus’ thoughts drifted to the image of Achilles, leaning in his casual way, watching silently. That day Myrtus had struck him. They hadn’t spoken of it, and Achilles acted like nothing had happened. Perhaps he hadn’t seen, after all. Patroclus could never be sure. 

“He has changed, somewhat. Since you came here. I see him think twice before he does anything now. However you did it, you have given him a reason to think. To use his head.” 

“I couldn’t have done that.” 

“It’s the only way I can explain it. And it’s why, Patroclus, I want you to be there when the Trojans come.” 

“It’s true then? About the embassy?” 

“We have not had a Trojan embassy in Phthia for decades. King Priam and I have not always agreed.” Peleus didn’t say anything further about that, but was still making sure that he had Patroclus’ attention. 

“They are sending their very best. Priam’s own sons will be among them. It speaks for how seriously they are taking an alliance with Phthia.” 

“And an alliance is something you wish, my lord?”

At this, Peleus frowned.   
“The Trojans are eager to involve themselves with the northern campaign.” 

He paused. 

“It was Achilles who proposed an alliance with them.” 

Patroclus was beginning to feel confused. Achilles had never shown any inclinations towards foreign diplomacy before. He hadn’t even had a say in his own marriage to Patroclus. 

“But, why, my lord? The Phthians have victored over the Trachians before, without Troy’s help.” 

“Trachis is not what it used to be. Decades ago, yes, we could have enjoyed the victory ourselves. And then the alliance with Opus brought us more troops. All the while, the northerners have grown in power. I suspect Troy has interests of its own in this campaign.” 

“You’re saying it’s a bad idea for us to ally with Troy?” 

“I’m saying we must tread carefully from here on. Achilles thinks he knows what he’s doing, but we cannot trust the Trojans. This is where you come in.” 

Patroclus frowned, his wine cup forgotten. 

“If you think I can persuade him to drop negotiations with Troy, you might be overestimating me, my lord.” Months ago he would not have been so bold, but Patroclus suspected Peleus appreciated honest words. 

“I am not asking you to persuade him of anything. I want you there, by his side. I want you asking the right questions. If you can do that, Patroclus, perhaps Achilles will learn to control himself when dealing with the Trojans. He could do with a second pair of eyes, and if there’s anyone who is suitable for that, I think it is you.”   
\--------------------------  
The conversation left Patroclus unable to sleep. Peleus trusted him to quell Achilles’ temper. To reign in whatever overconfidence Peleus thought Achilles had. Patroclus wasn’t certain he could do it. He was more afraid than ever of failing Peleus, whose favor he seemed to have earned. He recalled Machaon’s words, that whatever happened with Achilles, it was Peleus who was the real anchor to his position at court.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The arrival of the Trojans brought on a ceremony more formal and embellished than any Patroclus had seen in his time at the palace. He had witnessed dignitaries from other lands being received before, but none from a kingdom as fearsome and wealthy as Troy. Troy was far enough away that it enjoyed almost mythical status, as did its king. It was rumored that Priam had fifty sons and nearly as many daughters. The court with a hundred royal children.

Only four of them had been included among the group of representatives, four princes. Patroclus didn’t catch all of their names, but the most distinctive of them was Hector, Priam’s oldest son and heir. 

Patroclus saw Achilles studying the other man. Two sides to the same coin, both future kings. One day it would be them holding audiences at their courts, hosting receptions for foreign delegates. 

Peleus greeted the princes graciously enough, giving no sign of his disquiet that they were here at all. Standing a head taller than most of the other men, Hector cut an impressive figure as he bowed to Peleus and presented gifts of tribute. He inclined his head at Achilles respectfully, then saw Patroclus and did the same. Patroclus nearly took a step back. As royal consort, he was entitled to a certain level of respect, but people certainly didn’t treat him as Achilles’ equal. Troy must be a strange place indeed. 

The two younger princes were near-copies of Hector, olive-skinned with dark curls, broad-shouldered and muscular. The youngest one, who stood near the back, was fair and beautiful. Patroclus saw Achilles’ eyes graze over him for a second. They were introduced as Deiphobus, Polydorus, and Troilus.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

However long the Trojans were to stay at the palace, there was a level of unrest that Patroclus had never seen before. The grounds had always been quiet compared to the busy activity in Opus, but now, there was some excitement at royal guests in the household. 

Hector and his brothers dined with them every night, and during the day Achilles and his men entertained the older princes on hunts and riding parties. It gave Patroclus more time alone with Automedon, as he saw so little of Achilles in the days of the Trojans’ visit. 

On the third day, Hector spoke to him for the first time.

The princes had returned from their hunt, clutching wild game that the palace cooks would prepare for the evening meal. Deiphobus and Polydorus were noticeably excited, chattering together in their native tongue. 

Patroclus had just finished a lesson with Podalirius, and ducked into a hallway to avoid the group when he saw they were just outside the library archives where he and Podalirius frequented. Achilles had been completely gracious to their guests until that point, and Patroclus had seen no point in hovering, no matter what Peleus had said. It was clear that Achilles did know what he was doing. 

“I beg your pardon.” 

Patroclus whirled around to find Hector towering over him. The man was intimidating from afar, and up close he made Patroclus feel like a child; but he had a pleasant face, and kind eyes.

“We did not mean to intrude. I will tell my brothers to be quiet.”

Patroclus didn’t know how Hector had seen him, unless he had already strayed from the group by the time Patroclus left the library. 

“There’s no need for that,” he replied. 

“No, we are being rude. This is clearly a place you visit often.” Hector gestured at the books and scrolls Patroclus was carrying. 

“I would also like to apologize; I did not realize you were Prince Achilles’ consort the first day I was here. I should have greeted you as such. My mother would be very embarrassed.” He had a slight accent, and a very formal way of talking, but his Phthian was very good. 

“ … You don’t need to greet a consort,” Patroclus supplied lamely. 

Hector gave a puzzled frown. 

“Would you like some help?” he gestured again at the books; Podalirius had been especially enthusiastic today about reading materials on the history of trade routes between Phthia and Troy. 

Patroclus shook his head, then realized that was not polite. 

“I am grateful for the offer, but my escort is here.” 

Sure enough, Antilochus was walking towards them. He looked startled to see Hector, and bowed. Hector smiled at Antilochus, took Patroclus’ books, handed half to the guard and carried the other half himself. 

Patroclus and Antilochus shared a wary glance. 

“What does he want?” Antilochus whispered to Patroclus. 

“Don’t know, but I want my books back, so we should just let him.” 

Hector never failed to show up at the library every afternoon to walk Patroclus to the other end of the palace. Antilochus seemed annoyed at first that he had to deal with him, but was quickly won over by Hector’s amicable chatter and stories of Troy. 

It was clear that Hector, odd as he was, simply liked to talk and get to know the people around him. He appeared very serious at first, but that was not the case after knowing him for more than a few minutes. Deiphobus and Polydorus were much the same, though neither were as forward as their older brother. They greeted Patroclus with friendly smiles whenever they saw him, but said nothing. It was Hector who seemed determined to befriend him, for reasons unbeknownst to Patroclus. 

Patroclus was suspicious at first, wondering if Hector had some ulterior motive meant to undermine Achilles. He couldn’t maintain those suspicions for long, as Hector was hard not to like. He loved his homeland and enjoyed discussing it, answering any questions Patroclus had. And he got along extremely well with Automedon. The two played Petteia together well into the night. It was a board game Patroclus had never gotten the hang of, even when Automedon tried to teach him. 

In the meantime, Patroclus’ concerns rested on Achilles, who had been elusive lately. Perhaps Peleus had been right, yet Achilles showed no sign of reversing their newfound camaraderie with the Trojans. Patroclus still sat at his side during the dinner banquets every night, and Achilles was as raucous as ever, spurred on by Hector’s good nature and the eager attentions of Deiphobus and Polydorus. 

Patroclus had started to set the youngest prince, Troilus, apart from the older three. Unlike his brothers, he was withdrawn and quiet. He did join the other men for hunts, and was said to be an accomplished rider, not that Patroclus ever got to see him ride. Achilles certainly had. 

It was subtle, at first, but every night, Achilles would steal a glance towards the young prince. He did it without breaking his attention away from the older three; yet it was there, a mere flicker of the eyes. He’d never looked at Patroclus that way before. 

But, Troilus was really very beautiful. Perhaps even more so than Eudoros. He was smaller than his brothers, but athletic, and had a very striking face that reminded Patroclus of old tales his nursemaids had told of the sun god, how his beauty enraptured everyone around him. 

Patroclus knew this had not gone unnoticed by Peleus, either, who kept an eye on Troilus and managed to look both weary and disapproving at the same time. If Achilles took Troilus as a consort, it would mean an even stronger alliance with Troy. 

And Troy was far more powerful and influential than Opus. Patroclus could not understand why Peleus did not see the benefit, but was grateful for it.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the height of springtime in Phthia and Patroclus went out in the mornings to see the buds open on the trees in his gardens. He had started to think of them as his gardens now, not the queen’s. He loved this place; out of all the locations in the palace, this was the one that had brought him the most joy. It was here that he and Automedon had admitted their feelings for one another, it was here that Patroclus never felt alone. 

The birds chirped and played in the fountains, and Patroclus found himself smiling. That was when Achilles strode in and caught his wrist. 

Achilles’ expression was flat, his eyes intent and serious. Patroclus had only seen him this way once before, and felt a chill at the memory. He looked at Achilles, expecting the worst, turning over in his head what he would say. Except he had nothing. His mind drew a blank. 

“You didn’t come to dinner last night.” 

“I was tired, my lord.” If anything, that was not what he had expected Achilles to say. 

Achilles turned over his wrist. He wasn’t gripping it hard, but Patroclus felt the urge to pull away all the same. 

“And, I thought you wouldn’t mind. You seem to enjoy the company of our Trojan friends.” 

Patroclus had been careful with his tone, but Achilles’ suddenly dangerous smile told him he hadn’t been careful enough. 

“Our friends? Yes, our friends indeed. You seem to have found a kindred spirit in Prince Hector.” 

Patroclus frowned, unsure whether to be relieved or not. 

“Prince Hector? But … I thought you liked him.” Or his brother, more like. 

Achilles didn’t say anything for a moment. He stared at Patroclus, scrutinizing him. Then, the darkness of his expression lifted. 

“Patroclus… Have I really been that inattentive?”

What?

At Patroclus’ confused frown, Achilles moved to elaborate. 

“As much as I want this alliance with Troy, my father will not see it through. I’ve been trying to show him our two kingdoms can work together, by forging good relationships with the princes. I do not know why my father avoids this alliance.”

He moved to take Patroclus’ hand. 

“I’ve needed you at my side. I know I haven’t told you, but those nights when you were there … it made my resolve even stronger. I could keep a clear head when you were there.”

“That isn’t my doing. It’s you, Achilles. You wanted this, and you worked for it.”

“Give yourself some credit, Patroclus.” Achilles sighed. 

“Hector is not Automedon.”

Patroclus flinched, but Achilles didn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t trust him, and he is not one of us. Besides, they’re leaving soon. I doubt I will convince my father in the next few days we have them here. It’s going to take much, much longer.” 

Patroclus took a seat then, thinking of the way Achilles had looked at Troilus. So he didn’t believe Peleus was going to pursue an alliance with Troy, even after all his efforts. It made sense, then, why Achilles had not mentioned taking Troilus as a consort. Peleus was never going to approve it, and as much influence as Achilles had, he was not yet king of Phthia.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of mpreg  
> This chapter is kind of short. I have plans for what is going to happen in the next few chapters, which will probably be longer. Mostly I wanted to get this out of the way before we plunge into the unknown.

It had been a few months since the Trojan embassy’s departure, and Machaon reported that Achilles and Hector had kept up a steady stream of correspondence. How Machaon intercepted this information, Patroclus didn’t know. Machaon had to have his own connections within the court, and sometimes Patroclus forgot that Machaon was really a representative of King Menoetius. The fact that Machaon was so well-versed in Phthian courtly affairs was only a testament to his competence as an ambassador. Machaon’s actions would always be made to benefit Opus in some way, and Patroclus found himself growing more aware of this as the weeks passed.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus had retired to his chambers after seeing Achilles. Since the Trojans’ visit, Achilles had been wanting to spend more time with Patroclus. The prince had somehow caught on to the fact that Peleus was starting to show favor for Patroclus. 

It had begun mostly on banquet nights, Patroclus being more accomplished than ever in his performances of Old Phthian ballads. Podalirius had nearly cried when Patroclus rehearsed the famous “Ballad of the Salt Sea”, the one true masterpiece that could make or break most professional bards. 

“You’ve come such a long way, Patroclus!” Podalirius said, looking proud and stricken at the same time. 

“Do you remember when you were stumbling over the Phaeacian Epic and Machaon threw a book at you?” 

Patroclus hid his smile, turning towards Automedon, who had been listening in at the far end of the room. Automedon caught his eye and smirked, eyes glinting as the memory passed between them. 

“Yes, one doesn’t tend to forget flying literature aimed at one’s head, Podalirius,” Patroclus replied long-sufferingly, hearing Automedon snort. 

Podalirius clutched his writing materials to his chest, where he had been taking notes on Patroclus’ performance. He did this every lesson, somehow managing to fill in pages and pages on what Patroclus had done wrong, which he would bring to the next lesson and spend an hour lecturing Patroclus on what not to do from last time. But today, he hadn’t written much at all. 

“You don’t need me anymore, Patroclus.” He sighed, but was smiling. 

“Don’t be silly, Podalirius. Who else is going to teach me all the satyr leaps for the folk dances?” 

It was a jest, as Podalirius had actually sprained his ankle the other day trying to demonstrate a very complicated leap and twirl. Machaon had been annoyed and embarrassed, still berating his brother their entire trip down to the infirmary. 

Patroclus had indeed improved to the point where Peleus, and even other members of the court, requested a performance from him every banquet night. Achilles picked up on it and would sometimes accompany him with the lyre. Patroclus didn’t miss how Achilles observed Peleus the entire time they performed together.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus was weary as Briseis made him try on the new garments she’d had made from the material Peleus had sent. It seemed Patroclus had earned some regard both in and outside the court; the few foreign dignitaries who recently paid tribute to Phthia had brought him gifts. Gifts. For him, Patroclus. 

It was an unfamiliar experience. Beautiful silks from Scyros, featuring their famous embroidery, perfumed oils, gemstones and pearls. Patroclus left it all to Briseis to manage. He didn’t trust himself to know what to do with luxurious presents. 

The dinners with Achilles had left him exhausted. Achilles was always pleasant, and seemed happy with Patroclus’ company. Yet, Patroclus couldn’t shake the feeling that Achilles was looking for something. Something that Patroclus might give away in conversation, when unguarded, and Achilles was only waiting for the moment when he would let his guard down. 

It was very different from their earlier days, as newlyweds. He had liked Achilles, wanted Achilles to like him. Thought perhaps there could be something akin to an affectionate marriage, if not love. Achilles didn’t act any different from those early days; he was still charming and well-disposed, but Patroclus was wary to attract too much of his close attention. There was too much at stake. 

Briseis frowned as she tucked some pins into the sides of the material. She sat back to examine the result. Patroclus studied her tiredly. She had been in very good spirits lately, and he could tell she was happy with her duties as his chief attendant. Her tasks kept her busy and she was friendly with Antilochus, Automedon, even Podalirius and Machaon, who seemed to respect her a great deal. 

A swell of warm affection came over Patroclus, even as he thought about his brother’s words on how Briseis had trekked all the way over here to wait on him hand and foot. It was true, in a way, Briseis did fuss over him unceasingly. She’d been an important servant at the palace in Opus, and for some reason his father had let him have her. Patroclus would never know if King Menoetius had meant it as a gesture of solace, whatever small comfort he could offer the son he was selling to the Phthians. His father was not a compassionate man. If Menoetius had ever shown that he had even a shred of care for Patroclus, Briseis was the only proof of that. 

“You haven’t been eating, Patroclus.” Briseis wasn’t looking at him, but rather frowning at the new clothing he wore. 

“I … well, I have. I’ve been having dinner with Achilles almost every night.”

She looked at him then, clearly troubled. Patroclus wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn’t accompanied him to Phthia. She would have risen in the ranks of the servants, there was no doubt. Perhaps even been able to marry a high-ranking soldier or court official, someone low-born but had achieved a successful career. Or maybe one of Patroclus’ half-brothers would have noticed her and taken her as his concubine. 

“I know you haven’t eaten, I’ve been talking with Achilles’ serving girls. They say you don’t touch your food when you’re with him.” She sounded exasperated. 

Patroclus bit his lip, looking at his hands. He really hadn’t wanted to worry Briseis. But of course she had connections with the other servants. She was always looking out for him, in whatever way she could, even if it was just drawing out gossip from Achilles’ servants. 

“I just … I can’t eat, not when he’s watching me the way he does. He wants something from me, and I don’t know what it is. I can’t afford to let him see.” 

Briseis’ expression had darkened. 

“Prince Achilles does not treat you cruelly, does he?”

Patroclus started, meeting her gaze.

“No! No, not at all. He’s never been anything but kind to me.”

He looked away, Briseis didn’t seem at all convinced. He remembered then, how wary she was around the prince. He didn’t think she had ever spoken to Achilles, and perhaps avoided him outright. 

“But … he … notices things. I can’t ever tell what he wants. I wish I knew,” Patroclus admitted. 

Briseis patted his hand. “I’ll get you something, Patroclus.”

She got up and came back a minute later with some hot tea and a plate of biscuits and fruit. Patroclus wasn’t at all hungry, but accepted the food and ate, conscious that Briseis watched him all the while. There was something about her demeanor that gave him pause. She couldn’t be so unsettled just because he’d missed a few meals. And she knew he would eat if she asked him to. 

“Patroclus, I’m going to call for Philomenes.” Philomenes was one of the royal physicians. 

Patroclus was startled at her sudden announcement. 

“But I am eating! I don’t feel sick, Briseis. I promise I will eat at the next dinner.” 

Briseis shook her head. “I’m worried about you, Patroclus. I think there is something the matter, and the physician will know best.” There was something she wasn’t telling him, but Patroclus didn’t feel like arguing.   
\-----------------------------

Philomenes came as soon as he was summoned and was now examining Patroclus. Patroclus felt even more bad now that he had to admit he hadn’t eaten properly. Philomenes was a stern man, but not unkind, and his questions were very direct. 

Finally, he concluded his examination and wrote some notes in his physician’s scroll. 

“Your highness, I take it you are unaware that you are pregnant?” 

Silence. 

Patroclus was unable to move, his pulse quickened like the beat of Podalirius’ drum. 

Philomenes was looking at him now. 

“Yes, I thought so. You are in good health, highness, but I must advise you not to skip any meals in your current condition. You will need nourishment if you wish to carry to term.” 

Philomenes started to write on a blank piece of parchment. 

“I … what? Just, wait a moment.” Patroclus struggled to even his breaths now. 

Philomenes looked a little sympathetic. 

“I suppose it must come as a surprise to you, your highness. Be sure that I will visit every half month to ensure the pregnancy is progressing well.” He handed Patroclus the parchment he had written on. 

“I can’t tell how many weeks along you are, but I must say the first few months are the most dangerous. You must observe the precautions I’ve written down for you. Give it to your attendant, I trust she will know what to do.”   
Philomenes got up and bowed, leaving as quickly as he had arrived. 

Patroclus clutched the piece of parchment in his hand, not even sparing a glance at it. He sank down onto the bed and closed his eyes. Gods.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The news that Patroclus had conceived spread around the palace. Machaon reported that Peleus was extremely pleased with the news. The birth of an heir had been on the table ever since Patroclus’ arrival in Phthia. His father must be satisfied, if Patroclus successfully carried to term and had a son, he would fulfill his obligation. When Achilles became king, the heir to the throne would be a prince of both Opian and Phthian blood. It would be a small victory for Menoetius. 

Antilochus was treating his job even more seriously now, following Patroclus everywhere, carrying everything for him, and just hovering. Automedon did not hover. The news had reached him too; he and Patroclus shared silent glances whenever they crossed paths, the knowledge they conveyed clouded in a mixture of trepidation and a hesitant joy.

Patroclus could only hope. He could dare to hope.   
\------------------------------------------  
Achilles had eased off a little, he paid Patroclus frequent visits instead of summoning him to his chambers. Whatever it was Achilles wanted from Patroclus, it seemed to have been delayed by Achilles’ excitement at the unborn child.   
\--------  
The lively atmosphere in the palace died down when word reached Phthia of the growing unrest in the north. The Trachians were getting out of control, and sooner or later Peleus would have to send reinforcements. Opus and Scyros were playing their parts, but it was not enough, and every day more heralds arrived urging Peleus to send a second round of forces.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus sensed Automedon had been waiting for a while, the way he straightened immediately when he saw Patroclus emerge. It was too dark, barely any moonlight. 

They were silent for a moment, just looking at each other, drinking each other in. 

It was the first time they’d had a chance to talk in private, and Patroclus had been anticipating it for days. 

Automedon looked grave, more serious than Patroclus had ever seen him, but his dark eyes were alight in what was barely concealed pride. And fear. There was always fear. It would shadow them no matter what, especially now. 

Patroclus felt his heart beating hard in his chest, his awareness of Automedon a full-body submergence; in warmth, light, hyper-alert to the blood pounding in his ears. 

How he loved him. And how afraid he was. 

Automedon drew him towards him, placing both hands around Patroclus’ waist. Their foreheads leaned against one another. 

“What are you doing?” Patroclus murmured, feeling Automedon’s eyelashes flicker over his own. 

“I just want to feel you.” They stayed like that, however long, Patroclus couldn’t tell. 

Then Automedon drew back and sighed deeply. A small line had appeared between his eyebrows, and Patroclus wanted to kiss it away.

“Things are worse than we thought in the north.” 

It wasn’t what he had expected Automedon to say.

“The north?”

Automedon held his gaze, so somber and urgent, it made the hairs on the back of Patroclus’ neck raise. This was something important. 

“Scyros has withdrawn their troops.” A lurch in his gut. 

“Has the king finally agreed to send reinforcements?” Afraid of the answer, Patroclus could only wait.

“He has.”

Automedon did not waver. 

“He has appointed me Strategos of the army. I am to leave with the troops as soon as there’s word the bodies have been recovered.”

Bodies?

“We are being defeated, Patroclus. Peleus has waited too long.” 

“Why you?” Patroclus demanded, unable to keep the despair from his voice.

“Because I know the north. I have been fighting Peleus’ wars since I was a boy.” 

Automedon had been a lieutenant when Patroclus met him. He had been considered for general. Peleus would need his best men to recover what the Phthians had lost. If they had any hope of triumph at all… 

Patroclus let out a helpless laugh. 

“I had forgotten how distinguished you were in the army. All this time, as Captain of the Guard, and then as part of my personal retinue … oh, I’ve been stupid, Automedon.”

Automedon cupped his face then, both hands holding Patroclus like he was the most precious thing Automedon had. 

“I will fight for my king. And then I will come back, Patroclus.” The resolve in his voice … Patroclus didn’t dare.

“When I come back, you and I will go to Thessaly. There is an estate that I’ve secured, outside the royal funds. It is beyond Peleus’ reach. We will raise our child there.” 

Just … what?   
The words coming out of Automedon’s mouth were foreign. Patroclus almost rubbed at his ears to make sure he was hearing right.

“You’ve gone insane.” 

Automedon started to smile then, and Patroclus shook his head. 

“You really have gone insane.” 

“Do you trust me, my love?” Automedon was looking in his eyes, both with amusement and a great rush of affection. 

“I trust you,” Patroclus said, frowning in disbelief at Automedon’s sure resolution. 

“I know I’m not an aristocrat. My father was a commoner. I will never have the kind of power, the extent of network a king or prince enjoys. But, I know how to take care of the people I love.” Automedon looked away then, thinking of some distant memory. 

“As did my father. I am certain this is one place Achilles will never find us. You see, my father fought in many wars. He was one of the soldiers alongside Captain Menesthius, and the fighting brought him to the far reaches of the western provinces. Peleus wants the north, and my father helped him take it. So far he has taken Arisbe, Lindos and Cameirus. Trachis has proved more problematic than any of them. I believe it will keep Peleus occupied well throughout his reign, perhaps even Achilles when he is king. They will not look further than that.” Automedon paused. 

“My mother was from Thessaly. She left when she was very young, but her connections there remain even after she died. Her family maintains property in all the Thessalian regions. It was something that Peleus never took advantage of. My father was largely overlooked. I’m convinced Peleus doesn’t know how far my mother’s influence reached. If he did, my father would have been Captain and we would be allies with Thessaly now. Perhaps Achilles would have married Prince Larisus and not you.” 

There was a silence as Patroclus pondered Automedon’s words. 

Reluctantly, he replied. “What if it isn’t your child?” 

Automedon raised a hand to trace the line of Patroclus’ face. 

“If you think I won’t love any child of yours, Patroclus, you’re severely mistaken.”

He started to sit on the floor, and Patroclus joined him.

“I started to think of what to do as soon as I heard. I knew there had to be something.” 

Automedon suddenly stared at Patroclus, as though a thought had come to him. 

“How much does it all matter to you?” 

“Does what matter?”

“This.” Automedon gestured at some unknown object. 

“Everything you have.”

Patroclus considered this. “What do I have, exactly?”

“I’m asking you to flee with me to Thessaly with a child who could very well become a king. If you told me you didn’t want to, I would know why.” 

Patroclus could feel the beginnings of anger rising within him. 

“You think I care about any of this? You said so yourself, we never had a choice. Either of us. What I don’t understand, is why you would throw away your life, your home, for something that could get us killed. I left my home, but you still have yours.” 

“We could have a family,” was all Automedon said. The quietness of his voice was enough to still Patroclus. 

“I would give away anything I have for that.”   
“I … still can’t believe you made a plan. If anything, this was the last thing I expected.” 

Automedon’s smile was sad as he held Patroclus’ hand in his.

“You were never mine, Patroclus.”

“Wrong. I was always yours.”

“I wouldn’t have betrayed my prince by making you run away with me. Even though I’ve … certainly betrayed him in other things. But if there was a chance we had a child … I suppose, a man has limits.”   
Automedon continued.   
“I would never want to see our child grow up like we have. Our lives controlled by everything around us, never our own. If there is anything in the world that would make me break away from all I’ve known, it’s that. I would give him freedom.” 

Patroclus couldn’t stop the inkling of hope that had made its place in him. 

“Just come back, alive, and I will do everything I can to make it happen.” 

Automedon’s squeeze on his hand gave him a strength he hadn’t thought he could muster.


	13. Chapter 13

It had been months since the reinforcement troops were sent to the northern border, led by Automedon, their new Strategos. 

Achilles sat on his couch absent-mindedly strumming a lyre, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“It’s a good thing my father didn’t send me with them,” he mused. 

Patroclus looked up curiously from where he had been curled up, reading some old scrolls Podalirius had given him. 

“I mean to re-establish our relations with Troy,” Achilles explained. 

Patroclus carefully set aside his reading materials, thinking of Peleus’ agitation on the subject of the Trojans. He wasn’t sure if Peleus was right. Phthian and Opian troops alike had been killed in the north, and with Scyros out of the picture, their future looked bleak. 

“It’s only been a few months. Do you think they would visit with us again?” 

Achilles smiled. “I feel I have made enough of an impression with Hector.” 

His gaze roamed over Patroclus, stopping at Patroclus’ middle where he had begun to show, and smiled. 

“And he’s shown that our interests are in common.” 

Patroclus sighed.   
“My lord … we need them, don’t we? Do you really see a victory happening without their help?”

“Phthia has never been defeated before. But I think my father fails to see how dire the situation is. He underestimated the Trachians. I will not.” 

Patroclus was starting to get a headache. This had kept him up for nights on end, worrying whose side to take. Achilles, who wanted to ally with the Trojans in order to defeat the north. Achilles, who was probably right. The alliance was right there for the taking. The Trojans were obviously eager to fight the north, and were willing to aid Phthia simply on the basis of relations Achilles had forged with Priam’s sons. 

And then there was Peleus, who seemed to have some grudge against Troy, one that might make up a blind spot where war was concerned. But Patroclus was not so eager to discount Peleus’ opinions. There had to be a reason why Troy was not an alliance Peleus wanted, a reason that he would not even share with his son. 

If Patroclus appeared to take Achilles’ side, he would surely lose the favor he had gained with Peleus. Yet, he could not ignore that Achilles’ argument was entirely convincing, and it was hard to see how help from the Trojans would not bring them the victory they desired. Whichever way brought Automedon home. He would have to tread very carefully. 

“When are they arriving?” 

Achilles smiled, a look of surprise and approval crossing his face.

“In a week. You knew I already asked Hector.”

“It was a guess,” Patroclus admitted. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Although Peleus had not changed his mind about the alliance, he could not turn away a visiting embassy. Especially one as wealthy as Troy, bringing tribute gifts even though they had no obligation to pay tribute to Phthia. 

This time around, Hector came with only Deiphobus and Troilus in tow. 

Achilles was intent on showing Peleus that he would not give up, he had the Trojans’ support, and all Peleus had to do was say the word. How he thought it would be any different, and that he could convince Peleus, Patroclus did not know.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hector smiled when he saw Patroclus, reaching out to clasp hands with him.   
“It’s good to see you’re doing well, Royal Consort! We had word in Troy that you were expecting a child.” 

Patroclus returned Hector’s smile. 

“You can call me Patroclus, you know.”

“Well, if you insist. I would like to offer my congratulations. A child is a blessing.”

“My thanks. I hear you have a son of your own.”

“Yes. His name is Scamandrius, but my people know him as Astyanax.” 

“A fitting name. They know he is to rule one day.”

Hector gave Patroclus a look, one that was almost sympathetic. 

“Surely it is difficult for you to leave him behind in Troy?”

Hector laughed. 

“He will be making diplomatic visits of his own, when the time comes. I hope I can spare him from that now.” 

There was a short pause, as they continued walking. Patroclus knew Achilles was not keen on a friendship between them, but he wanted to speak with Hector. Maybe he would learn something of what an alliance with Phthia meant from the side of the Trojans. 

“You seem worried,” Hector observed. 

He gestured at Patroclus. “It can be exciting, frightening even … that your child might be the future king.” 

When Patroclus didn’t answer, Hector cleared his throat. “At least that’s what Astyanax’s mother has said.” 

“I suppose,” Patroclus replied, nervous about what Hector was looking for. He didn’t know how close Achilles and Hector’s relationship was. Achilles had mentioned he didn’t trust Hector, but Patroclus hadn’t known if it was because Hector had given him his attentions or if Achilles didn’t trust Hector in general. 

“Her name is Andromache,” Hector added, looking sideways at Patroclus like he knew exactly what he was thinking. 

“My wife.” 

Patroclus was taken aback. Princes did not refer to their consorts as their wives. It would be like Achilles referring to Patroclus as his husband, which had never happened. They were not equals. 

He didn’t know what to say, but Hector didn’t seem to mind. 

“We were very nervous, the months before Astyanax’ birth. Could not wait. My father has close to a hundred children, as I’m sure you’ve heard, but somehow none of that mattered. It was my son who would be king, after me. It’s a little unsettling to know everything you experience, your son will know too. I hope things are easier for him.” 

Patroclus stilled. He suddenly thought of how Automedon and Hector had conversed, laughing and trading jokes and stories as they played a game of Petteia. Hector’s words reminded him of Automedon’s wishes, something different for his own child. 

“Is it a life you would want for your son?” Patroclus finally asked. 

“It is as good a life as any. If I had to teach my son everything I know … which I will - I would certainly hope he has the same love for his country and people as I have, as my father has.”

Hector clapped Patroclus on the shoulder. 

“We only have the lives the gods have given us. We must do what we will. I will know the loneliness my son will eventually face, when he is given power beyond what any other man in Troy has. Perhaps … things will be different for him. But if they aren’t … I can only give him everything I have.” 

Patroclus had not expected Hector to trust him with such a personal statement. He knew Hector was friendly, and he wanted this alliance as much as Achilles. But he didn’t know what purpose Hector had for sharing some part of himself with Patroclus, who wasn’t even involved with the alliance, unless it really was just a piece of knowledge from one parent to another. 

“I thank you for speaking with me. Your words have … left me some things to think about,” Patroclus allowed.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peleus had declined to attend the banquet that night, and Achilles was left to host it himself. It was more informal than what Peleus would have allowed, with the guests lounging on couches and watching dancing girls twirl gracefully in the center of the room. 

Patroclus started as Eudoros clambered onto his couch. It had been a while since he had seen the nobleman. Eudoros grinned at Patroclus, and Patroclus wondered what would happen if he simply asked Eudoros to leave. He remembered Machaon’s endless reminders on how he was technically higher-ranked than Eudoros, even more so now that he might be the bearer of the future Crown Prince. Eudoros had no right to approach him without invitation. 

“Not going to join the dancing?” Eudoros beckoned towards the performers. His eyes were sparkling, he could probably read Patroclus like a book. 

“I was never … much of a dancer.” Patroclus said.

“Nonsense. I hear you have a wonderful tutor,” Eudoros replied, almost mockingly. 

Patroclus realized Eudoros was making a joke. The other man wasn’t here to insult him. In fact, they had made it clear to the court that they were on good terms, so there was no reason why Eudoros would jeopardize that. 

Patroclus followed Eudoros’ gaze to where it rested on Achilles. The latter shared his couch with Deiphobus and Troilus, but his attention was really on Troilus. Patroclus wondered what had changed, that Achilles felt it was appropriate now to show interest in Troilus openly. 

Eudoros caught Patroclus’ gaze, smiling knowingly. 

“I would have fought in the war, you know. Against the northerners. If my father had let me.” 

Patroclus frowned, wondering what Eudoros was getting at now. Eudoros was more athletic than Patroclus, but he was no soldier. 

Eudoros took a cup of wine from a serving girl, not even having to look. 

“I would fight now, too. If Peleus would send me. But …” Eudoros’ smile grew bitter.   
“That isn’t what my use is for.”

Patroclus studied Eudoros. He looked tired, even though it didn’t mar his handsome features at all. There was once when Patroclus would perceive Eudoros as an immediate threat. His beauty and wealth had been extremely intimidating, and the fact that he knew Achilles better and his father was one of Peleus’ most trusted men. Now, all Patroclus felt was common ground between them. Two people who had been raised for the purposes of other men more powerful than they. 

He was speaking of fighting in the war … Patroclus suddenly recognized what the look in Eudoros’ eyes was. 

“Your father? He went with Strategos Automedon to fight the Trachians?” 

Eudoros’ eyes flicked up at Patroclus. 

“No. I’m afraid it was the other way around. The Strategos’ men were sent to retrieve my father’s corpse from the northern barbarians.” 

Echekles. Patroclus had never actually met the man before, or at least he didn’t remember it. He remembered that Echekles had provided most of Peleus’ support for the northern campaign. He must have traveled extensively between Phthia and the north, too. 

Eudoros had loved his father, Patroclus realized. The downward tilt of Eudoros mouth, the hardness of his eyes, betrayed it. 

“I’m sorry, Eudoros.” What else was there to say?

Eudoros simply nodded at him, once, in acknowledgment. He could have come up with some cutting reply, but he didn’t. Instead something seemed to have caught his eyes, and he reached out to stroke the side of Patroclus’ robe. 

“You still wear these.” 

He was fingering the golden pins he had given Patroclus, the gift meant to show off his wealth, what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Eudoros’ smile turned mischievous. “I knew you would like them.” 

Patroclus allowed a small smile back. 

“And, have you smashed the krater I gave you yet?” 

Eudoros actually threw back his head and laughed. It made Patroclus wonder why Achilles had never desired Eudoros, never wanted to take him as a second consort. 

“Silly little gifts. Silly little times,” Eudoros murmured, eyes going dark. 

Even like this he was fascinating to watch.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the way back to his chambers, Patroclus noticed Achilles headed towards Peleus’ quarters, visibly fuming. 

Turning towards Antilochus and Eurypylus, the guard who had fully replaced Automedon, Patroclus gestured towards the chambers. 

“I am going to speak with Prince Achilles. I’m sure he can accompany me back to my quarters later on.” 

Eurypylus was about to protest, but Antilochus caught Patroclus’ eye. 

“I’ll escort his highness to Prince Achilles,” Antilochus told Eurypylus. Eurypylus, obviously used to Antilochus to know he would do as he said, shrugged and walked away. 

Patroclus faced Antilochus, unsure whether to trust him or not. He liked Antilochus, and they had become almost friends, or as friendly as a consort and his personal guard could become. Without falling in love and meeting in secret, like Patroclus had with his other personal guard, that is. 

Antilochus met Patroclus’ gaze in a challenge, as if to say, ‘you can either trust me now or never at all’. Patroclus sighed, giving in. 

“Lead the way,” Antilochus said cheerfully. 

They went, and Patroclus slipped into the shadowed corridors outside Peleus’ quarters. The king had guards of his own, but Antilochus nodded to Patroclus to keep moving. As they approached, Antilochus walked up to the guards. 

“Panderion, Isomenes! Been a while since I’ve seen you two,” he greeted in his usual bright demeanor. 

“Go away, Antilochus,” Patroclus heard one of them say. 

Right, this needed to be quick. The guards were in no mood to be entertained by Antilochus. Patroclus simply needed to hear what Achilles was saying to Peleus, and then they would go. 

He underestimated the amount of which Antilochus could talk. 

As Antilochus chattered away and the other guards grudgingly started to oblige, Patroclus slipped into one of the side entrances where he could hide between one of the pillars and listen in to Achilles’ and Peleus’ conversation. 

He could see Peleus now, resting on his furs, looking drained. 

Achilles was pacing the room, and Patroclus couldn’t see him, but could hear his footsteps. 

“So it’s still not enough, everything I’ve done so far. I understand that, father.” 

Achilles paced some more. Peleus watched him.

“What I don’t understand is what harm it could possibly do to have Troilus.”

Patroclus was surprised. Troilus. He hadn’t expected Achilles to actually ask Peleus for Troilus. 

“How many times have I told you, Achilles?” Peleus finally voiced. 

“I didn’t want the Trojans here in the first place, and did you listen to me?” 

“The Trojans are here because we need them, and you know that. How many more men have to die before you realize Trachis isn’t what it was?” 

“You think I don’t know that? I have sacrificed my men, the very best of them, the ones who could have been here protecting us if there was an invasion! You do not understand how vulnerable we are, and you have brought the Trojans into our homeland.” The anger in Peleus’ voice was evident now. 

“The Trojans are clearly not going to invade us!” Achilles cried.

“You fool.” Peleus rose. 

“I have obliged you with too much. It’s clear to me you cannot see how dangerous the Trojans are. Apparently it was not enough that they took your mother.” 

Achilles’ step faltered. 

Peleus ignored him and continued. 

“You would trust such men. Men from the House of Priam, who betrayed us when we faced invasion from the Pheraeans, who conspired for the fall of our house? You might like this Hector, but do not forget whose son he is. Just another head on the snake.” 

Patroclus was floored by this information. 

He could see Achilles then, as Peleus walked towards him.

“You would trust a snake around your unborn child.”

Patroclus saw the way Achilles paled. 

He had to leave. Antilochus was starting to say goodbye to Panderion and Isomenes now, very loudly, so Patroclus knew he was trying to signal that whatever it was Patroclus wanted to eavesdrop on, he had better finish up with it. 

He met Antilochus outside, and they walked back to Patroclus’ chambers in silence. Antilochus didn’t ask what Patroclus had overheard, and Patroclus wasn’t up to telling him. 

When they reached the doorway, and Briseis started to fret that Patroclus was back so late, Patroclus offered Antilochus a smile.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus thought Peleus was wrong. About one thing, at least. Hector wasn’t a snake. Did he have motives of his own? It was possible. Probable, even, for a future ruler. But Patroclus found it hard to think that Hector really meant any harm. 

He did need to find out what had happened with Achilles’ mother, though. And what had happened with the Pheraeans, why Peleus blamed the Trojans for a near-invasion of Phthia. 

It was even more apparent now that Peleus would not be convinced of an alliance. Patroclus had gone through the motions all along, thinking Achilles had no idea why Peleus disapproved of the alliance. It turned out, Achilles did know. And it didn’t dissuade him from pushing on. 

That did explain why Achilles had paid such close attention to his father’s interactions with Patroclus. Whatever he’d been looking for, those nights at dinner, it had something to do with what he thought Peleus had said to Patroclus. Patroclus couldn’t be sure, but it was entirely possible Achilles wanted to know if Patroclus supported Peleus’ hostility against the Trojans. 

There was only one person he could really ask about the previous queen, one who might actually know the truth.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your highness, I don’t see how it can do any good for you to know this information,” Machaon admonished. 

“Machaon, I have done everything in my power to fulfill my obligations to my fatherland. Do you believe me when I say I do this to benefit both Opus and Phthia?” It was a half-truth, this information wouldn’t be much use to Opus, but if Patroclus could just figure out what to do next … maybe it would involve a victory, maybe not. 

Machaon sighed and gave Patroclus a level look. 

“Even if I knew, Patroclus … you understand King Peleus has had this wiped from the official records? Erased from history. It is as though she never existed.” He swiped a hand through his curly hair, and Patroclus noticed this was the most expressive he had ever seen Machaon, aside from irritation and his general abrasive personality. 

“Whatever information I give you, it will have holes. You’ll need to take it with a grain of salt. Not to mention the scholars back in Opus are generally quite biased.”

Patroclus nodded expectantly. 

Machaon exhaled, looking stern. “And not a word to Podalirius. He has an obsession with history, as you well know. It will not do to have his interest piqued by something that could catch Peleus’ attention and have us seen as enemies.”

“Of course, Machaon.” 

Machaon hesitated. 

“There were rumors … she was a foreign princess, you know, from the House of Nereus. Back then, there was constant civil war between the southern royal houses. Peleus happened to marry her after he conquered some of the southern kingdoms. It was a tempestuous marriage. Some say she conspired with the Pheraeans for revenge against Peleus on the destruction of her homeland. Other sources … say the Pheraeans planned to invade Phthia so their leader could marry her and consolidate power in the south. Somehow, the Trojans were involved, and they helped smuggle her out of Phthia. Back then, Phthia did have a somewhat shaky alliance with Troy. It was broken when they took the queen. There was almost a war. But Troy conquered Pherae and its neighboring kingdoms, which you know, and Peleus had the other southern kingdoms along the coast. There was no way Phthia could have defeated Troy. They were already powerful.” 

“What happened after she escaped? What happened to her?”

“Nobody knows. Prince Achilles was an infant then. If she had taken him with her…” Machaon shook his head. 

“The Trojans made an official apology to Peleus, claiming they did not know the queen was working independently. He had no choice but to accept, or risk war.” 

“So Troy wanted the south … that’s why they agreed to help the queen? If she was gone, there was no way for the Pheraeans to actually have a claim on the southern kingdoms. It actually … paved the way for them.” 

Machaon nodded. “Supposedly. You can see they succeeded. Troy now controls the majority of the southern trade routes. It’s the only time Phthians and Trojans ever encounter one another, because Peleus still controls the coastal kingdoms.” 

“Would Troy … want the coastal kingdoms too?” Patroclus wondered. 

“It has been years since then, if they did, they would have made their move long ago. It’s too late now, the coastal kingdoms are loyal to Peleus. It was one reason your father was so keen on an alliance. Opus has wanted to break into the coastal trade route for decades, but never had the chance.” 

So Troy wasn’t trying to invade Phthia. Achilles was right about that. What did they want then, that Peleus was so afraid of?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After hearing the conversation Achilles had with Peleus, Patroclus had been wondering why the Trojans were still here. Achilles still wasn’t giving up. Peleus wouldn’t budge, yet night after night Achilles entertained the Trojans. He was biding his time. But for what? 

It wasn’t for Troilus, whose detachment Achilles had grown more and more resentful of. By law, Achilles couldn’t take a consort without the permission of the king. Peleus had refused to let Achilles take Troilus, even though Troilus didn’t seem to hold much sway in the Trojan court. Troilus was likely here because he was young and inexperienced. King Priam might have thought he needed exposure to matters of foreign diplomacy. 

Patroclus had never spoken to Troilus, but found the younger man watching him, sometimes. They were probably of an age, but after speaking to Hector so many times, it was easy to think of Troilus as much younger. Troilus didn’t display any signs of hostility, although he was not as friendly as Deiphobus. All the same, Patroclus felt uncomfortable having those eyes on him. He gathered it was because of the pregnancy. It wasn’t obvious, but you could still tell Patroclus was expecting; and although consorts were usually confined to their quarters during pregnancy, Achilles had wanted Patroclus present. 

Eudoros had started to attend the banquets more often. Patroclus figured he was starting to get over his father’s death, and wanted to stoke his curiosity in their Trojan visitors. He seemed particularly interested in Hector, whom he spent many nights conversing with. 

Machaon scoffed when Patroclus mentioned it to him. 

“Eudoros does nothing without ulterior motives, highness. Perhaps he thinks Hector will spill secrets about Troy, then he can go running to Prince Achilles, who will be oh-so-grateful he’ll finally take him as consort. Hah! Not likely.”

Machaon had been in very good spirits since Patroclus’ pregnancy, it not only meant security for relations between Opus and Phthia, but security for Machaon’s job, as well. 

Knowing Hector, he was probably willingly spilling secrets to Eudoros, Patroclus thought. Useless ones that didn’t apply to anything Eudoros had in mind.


	14. Chapter 14

Patroclus had been invited to dine with Peleus. This was a change from the usual atmosphere of nighttime merriment. They were getting close to the end of the Trojans’ visit, at least it seemed that way. Achilles had become more frustrated that he was failing to convince his father. It was a surprise that he hadn’t reacted poorly when Patroclus announced he couldn’t attend the banquet that night. 

“So my father wants to see you,” Achilles contemplated. 

Patroclus thought he looked exhausted. He almost felt sorry for Achilles - it was an honest attempt, what Achilles was doing, and he genuinely wanted to prevent Phthia’s defeat by the Trachians. 

“I have to go,” Patroclus replied. Months ago he might have said something stupid, like how he wouldn’t go if Achilles didn’t want him to. They both knew he had to go, it was no use pretending otherwise. 

“I know that,” Achilles snapped, green eyes narrowed. 

He paused, looking embarrassed at himself. 

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that, Patroclus.” Achilles got up and went over to Patroclus. His hands hovered, as if he wasn’t sure he could touch him. It made Patroclus frown. Achilles had never been shy about physical contact. 

“Did you see when Myrtus struck me?” Patroclus suddenly blurted out. 

Oh no. 

Patroclus cursed and cursed himself, how much of an idiot was he? This moment with Achilles, who looked at him with tender care, reminded Patroclus of the times he could speak openly to him. He had forgotten himself and made a foolish mistake. 

Only Achilles didn’t look offended. He was studying Patroclus, in that considering way of his. 

“Yes.” 

Patroclus flushed. He had seen the whole thing after all. Thoughts flashed in Patroclus’ mind, the way Achilles had looked at him without a word while his face hurt and his nose was bloodied, so nonchalant. 

“Why … you were watching us. And you let him …”

Achilles eyes had a new light in them. He almost looked amused. Patroclus was torn between feeling ashamed, and very afraid at what he had just made himself face. 

“Do you hate me for it?” Achilles simply asked, voice mild. 

“ … No. I … well, I wasn’t even sure if you had seen!”

“And now?” Achilles pressed. He didn’t look challenging or cold, just curious. 

“Should I?” Patroclus sighed. 

“Do you want me to?” He was feeling dizzy, and looked for a place to sit down. Achilles really was the source of most of his headaches. 

“You saw it all, and you stood back. What kind of person does that?” Patroclus was being more forward than he had ever been with Achilles. He didn’t know where this boldness was coming from, perhaps physical weariness and the anticipation of a visit with Peleus had caused his inhibitions to melt away.

“What kind of person, indeed. And yet you don’t hate me,” Achilles replied, smiling lightly. 

He moved forward suddenly and steadied Patroclus, hands moving around his waist to help him sit down. 

“You wanted me to hate you? Is that it? You made sure I could see you.” Patroclus wasn’t even angry at this point, simply annoyed and wanting to get to the bottom of this. He was tired of Achilles’ elusiveness, if he could just have something, something of Achilles that was real. 

“I wanted to see how you would react.” 

“To Myrtus? Or to you? Because I can tell you, my reaction to Myrtus was rather bloody. I had to hide it from Briseis and she found out anyway and cried when she saw it. It made me feel worse than actually getting hit in the first place.”

“Both.” Achilles was bending over now, looking at Patroclus carefully, his hand on Patroclus’ forehead to check for fever. 

“Briseis is the one who Lykaia and Terpe like to talk to,” Achilles observed, referring to his serving girls. 

“Never mind that.” Patroclus was starting to feel as bristly as Machaon. 

Achilles caught his eye. 

“Are you afraid you’ve married a monster?” 

He was amused again! Patroclus couldn’t understand what Achilles wasn’t telling him. 

He stared back, frowning, until Achilles explained. 

“I wanted to see what you were like. With Myrtus. He obviously hated you. And then you saw me … and you just walked back to your chambers. You were … oddly brave.”

“Brave?” Patroclus breathed. 

“I would’ve been brave if I had fought back. I would’ve been brave if I’d made sure Myrtus never touched me again. I would’ve been brave if I’d asked you what you thought you were doing, standing there and watching me, like a play. What I did instead … that wasn’t bravery.” 

Achilles was kneeling by then, arms carefully balanced on the chair on either side of Patroclus. 

“You were afraid. Yet you faced Myrtus, didn’t flinch when he struck you. I remember your face when you realized I was there, the blood dripping onto your tunic. How you stared at me.” There was a quiet smile on Achilles’ face. 

“I remember thinking then, how you weren’t at all like what I expected.” 

Achilles slowly placed a hand on the swell of Patroclus’ belly, his face more serious now. 

“If our son has even an ounce of your will, it wouldn’t be a bad thing.” 

Patroclus was at a loss for words. 

“I think you better go now, Patroclus. I’m anxious to hear what my father tells you.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Achilles’ words clouded Patroclus’ thoughts throughout his visit with Peleus. He didn’t know Achilles at all. He wasn’t sure if their conversation had cast a more favorable light on Achilles or not - while Achilles had been honest and genuine with him, perhaps for the first time, he still hadn’t done anything to stop Myrtus. He’d preferred to see how Patroclus reacted to Myrtus’ violence, always the observer. It revealed a part of Achilles’ character that Patroclus had long suspected. That he not only saw things, but used what he saw to decide how people could affect his plans. 

Peleus was the exception to this. Perhaps it was because he was Achilles’ father, or that he had known him all his life. His judgment was compromised there, Achilles didn’t really know how to deal with Peleus or how he could change the situation. 

Patroclus guessed Achilles thought he would play a part in this, but Achilles wasn’t sure if Patroclus would act to his advantage or not. It was why he was both intrigued and suspicious of Peleus’ liking of Patroclus - if he cast the right lot, Patroclus had Peleus’ ear and could have a hand in turning their circumstances around. If he was wrong, Patroclus would listen to Peleus and be no help at all. 

“Philomenes tells me you are doing well. That the babe is healthy,” Peleus remarked, beckoning for Patroclus to take more fruit.

“Yes. He says I should have no problem carrying to term,” Patroclus replied. 

“That is very good news.” Peleus wasn’t smiling, but the look on his face still managed to convey contentment.

“My lord, I…” Patroclus set down his cutlery.

“I am sorry if I have failed you.”

Peleus’ eyebrows rose. 

“Why would you think that?”

“You warned me, about the Trojans. You said Achilles needed me. And … well, it didn’t work, did it? They’re here again. I haven’t changed Achilles’ mind at all.”

Peleus waved a hand, unconcerned. 

“That was never your responsibility, Patroclus. I am more concerned that you are in good health, for the sake of my grandchild.”

He smiled. “I look forward to having a child in these halls again.”

At Patroclus’ silence, Peleus huffed. 

“You didn’t fail, by the way.”

Peleus pushed aside his own table setting, a sign he was talking seriously. 

“I asked you to stay at his side. To watch closely. And you did. Tell me, what did you learn of Achilles?”

Patroclus hesitated. “That … he was willing to work for an alliance. And, he would have succeeded. He managed to get them here a second time around, after all.”

Peleus nodded in assent. 

“Before you came here, I would not have put Achilles in charge of hosting a foreign delegate. He is too used to the love of his men, he wouldn’t have anticipated the myriad of things that could go wrong with strangers. If they had been anyone other than the Trojans ….” Peleus sighed. 

“But I can understand what he is trying to achieve. Whatever Achilles’ faults, he has our people’s best interests in mind. It was already bad enough when we got word of the prisoners, I’m sure that’s what drove him to -”

“Prisoners?” Patroclus cut in. 

“Several weeks ago, we received information that a small group of the second contingent had been captured by the Trachians. They were either killed or held hostage. It was alarming news, and some of them were among Achilles’ friends at the military academy - ” 

Patroclus rose. Peleus stared at him, looking confused. 

“I … my lord, I ask to be excused.”

“Are you not feeling well, Patroclus? Perhaps I should call Philomenes.” 

“There’s no need. Please, I must retire to my chambers.” 

Peleus conceded. “Alright, if you must. Send word if you need assistance.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus ignored the startled glances of Achilles’ guardsmen when he approached the chambers. They didn’t try to barr his way, they just looked confused when he walked right in, as neither of them had been sent to summon him. 

Achilles looked up from a book as Patroclus emerged, surprised yet pleased at the same time. 

“So soon? I thought my father would have kept you longer.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about the prisoners of war?” 

Achilles tossed aside his book.

“Did you not know? Well … I suppose it was classified military information. Wouldn’t want word getting out that some of ours have been taken captive.”

Patroclus hesitated then, suddenly regretting that he had come in here so abruptly. If there were prisoners of war, why would they be his concern? It was a common occurrence in battle. 

“Do you know who … which men were taken?” He cursed himself. Why couldn’t he stop?

Achilles drew out a chair next to him. “Sit down, won’t you? You’re looking pale.”

As Patroclus sat, Achilles retrieved a piece of parchment that looked like a hastily written military report. 

“We can’t be sure of everyone who was taken. Some of them are probably dead. It’s hard to tell the difference.” 

He handed Patroclus the parchment. 

“These are the men who were missing from the contingent when the Trachians attacked.” 

Patroclus eyes seized the near-illegible writing, desperately roving over the names. 

Automedon. 

Defeat weighed on his shoulders, making him slump. 

Achilles watched him, but it was an indifferent gaze.

“It happens, Patroclus. And it was not enough to make my father agree to an alliance with Troy. Even though we could use their help.” He looked distant and bitter. 

“What did my father say to you?”

“He told me about this,” Patroclus countered.

Achilles suddenly laughed, the sound dry and flat. 

“After everything I have done … oh, the old man will do as he pleases, won’t he? There’s nothing more to it.”

Patroclus realized Achilles had given up. 

It made his skin burn with a helpless anger.

“So this is who you are?” 

Achilles turned to him, surprised. 

“You’re going to stand back and watch, while your men suffer, because they really are nothing to you but pieces on the board?”

“It was a small group, Patroclus. Sometimes there are sacrifices. It won’t matter much in the big picture.”

“You don’t know where the prisoners are being kept. Why hasn’t there been a search party?”

Achilles really looked at Patroclus now, and Patroclus could tell he wasn’t going to react well to Patroclus’ heated line of questioning. 

“Are you forgetting your place, Patroclus? You know I don’t really care if you step out of line, but this questioning is getting tiring.” 

Patroclus stilled, forcing himself to take deep breaths. 

Achilles watched him wearily. 

“You’re going to make yourself ill. The stress really isn’t good for the child, you know, and I don’t want to hear Philomenes complaining that I’m causing you distress.” 

Achilles got up and placed his hands on Patroclus’ shoulders. 

“I’ll ask Lykaia to get you something to drink.”

He called for the servant, and she quickly arrived with a cup of steaming tea. 

Patroclus sipped at it, letting the herbal scent drift through his nostrils. 

He was feeling a little better, but the pounding of his heart had not ceased. 

Achilles still watched him, taking the cup and placing it gently on the table in front of Patroclus. He wound an arm around Patroclus’ shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. 

“You know, you had better rest. I was going to retire anyway. Come to bed, won’t you?” 

Patroclus acquiesced. It had been a while since he shared Achilles’ bed through the night, but perhaps it would give him a chance to convince Achilles to take action in the morning, when they were both refreshed.

Patroclus let Lykaia undress him, and he clambered into the bed ungracefully, dragging the sheets over himself. Perhaps he was coming up with a fever. He was cold, even though the night had been a warm one. 

Achilles slid into bed next to him and looked at him for a while. Then, he reached out and brushed Patroclus’ hair off his face. Patroclus hoped Achilles wasn’t suggesting anything, he simply was not in the mood for lovemaking. 

But Achilles only held him closer and kissed him softly before closing his eyes and going to sleep.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the morning, they awoke and the servants dressed Patroclus in fresh clothing, presumably Briseis had sent it over when she heard Patroclus spent the night in Achilles’ chambers. 

Patroclus sat at the table to break his fast, he had been dutiful about getting enough to eat since Philomenes’ first visit. 

Achilles didn’t join him, but when Patroclus rose to head to the bathing chamber, he followed behind. They sat in Achilles’ bathing pool together, in comfortable silence. When the skin on Patroclus toes started to resemble prunes, he got out to dry himself off.

Achilles wrapped his arms around him from behind and kissed his neck. 

Patroclus pondered not responding or simply letting Achilles lead him back to bed. 

“I was wondering how long you were sleeping with Automedon.”

The air in the room stilled. 

Patroclus could not quite bring himself to move, the way the blood in his veins had turned to ice. 

Achilles was still holding his waist, and was leaning his head over to look at Patroclus expectantly. 

Patroclus dared himself to meet Achilles’ eyes. 

There was nothing there. No anger. Just a cool detachment, curiosity, even. 

“I thought,” said Achilles, finally releasing Patroclus. 

“That perhaps it must have been a short time. A passing interest.”

He lifted a hand, as though asking himself a question.

“But it must not have been.” He looked at Patroclus intently. 

“It must have been much, much longer than I guessed. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be quite so afraid that he’s about to die, would you?”

Patroclus had to keep his knees from buckling. He would beg, he decided. He would beg Achilles to send a search party, to start negotiations with the Trachians. 

What came out instead was;   
“It wasn’t the king who summoned him as Strategos. It was you.” 

Achilles smiled a little. 

“You are right, of course.” He hadn’t stopped looking at Patroclus.

Patroclus went up to Achilles and gripped his arm. Somehow he didn’t think begging was going to work, the way Achilles’ eyes were on him.

“What will it take for you to send out a search? To begin negotiations with the Trachians for releasing the hostages?” 

Achilles tutted at Patroclus. 

“Now, now. Don’t start getting demanding, Patroclus.” 

“You sent him to die!”

“I gave him to you. I can take him away whenever I like.”

Patroclus felt his heart keel over. 

He steeled himself, forcing the racing thoughts in his head to form a coherent pattern. 

“I can give you Troilus.”

Achilles’ gaze flickered. He turned grim.

“No, you can’t.”

“If I convince your father to let you have Troilus, will you send out a search party? Will you see it through that the hostages are released?”

“Automedon is most likely already dead,” Achilles mused, not at all happy at Patroclus’ suggestion.

“Will you?” Patroclus pushed.

A silence. 

Frowning, Achilles nodded his head slightly.

“You’ll fail. My father doesn’t care what I want. But yes. If you can convince him, I will heed your request.”

Patroclus exhaled, and quickly left to find Briseis so he could get dressed.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He went to Peleus, who seemed surprised Patroclus had come without a summons, but received him nonetheless.

“What troubles you, Patroclus?” Peleus asked, noticing Patroclus’ purposeful expression. 

“I’m here to ask you something, my lord.”

“Oh? And what would you ask of me?”

“I ask that you let Achilles take Troilus as a consort, my lord.”

Peleus looked stunned, then irritated.

Patroclus shook his head, to show that he would explain.

“I know what you have been telling me, my lord. It doesn’t escape my notice that we tread on dangerous waters with the Trojans. Last night, you asked me what I saw when I looked at Achilles.”

Patroclus paused, weighing his words.

“He will not give in, my lord. Already he has shown that he is willing to persevere with the Trojans. It is a likelihood that the Trojans have their own interests obtaining Phthia’s help. And I have been wondering who is really helping the other.” 

Peleus regarded Patroclus calmly.

“You are most astute, Patroclus. Since when have the Trojans lended their aid to us for nothing in return?” he said nothing further. 

“I admit not to know their motivations. Yet. But, considering Achilles’ determination, would it not be better to accept the lesser evil? If Troilus stays, the rest will leave. Would it not put you at ease if they are no longer at court, having Achilles’ ear?” 

Peleus considered this. He grimaced. 

“I must admit I had no intention to compromise. But I fear you are right. If Achilles had his way, they would never leave. He would only have them back, again and again, and I would not be able to turn them away without causing insult.”

He didn’t look happy, though, and Patroclus needed one last push.

“I’ve spoken with Hector a few times. I don’t think he means us direct harm, but with him here at court, we are at a disadvantage. But if it were just Troilus …”

“He’s just a boy,” Peleus finished. 

“It could buy us time,” Patroclus added. 

Peleus took a breath.

“I hear what you are telling me, Patroclus. We can keep an eye on the boy, while Achilles clears his head from Trojan influence. And we might just find out what they want before they use it against us. I am not one to ignore good advice.”

Peleus gave Patroclus a curious look then.

“Though I must admit, I’m surprised you would encourage this to happen.”

Patroclus inclined his head. 

“My lord has asked me to stay at Achilles’ side, to see things he can’t. I would see it through that your request is fulfilled.” 

Peleus accepted this. 

“I will consider what you have said, Patroclus. But I warn you - if Achilles takes Troilus as his consort, I cannot protect you from what will happen if Troilus has a son.” 

Patroclus expected this, and merely bowed. 

“I hear you, my lord.” 

The next day, the first party of searchers was sent out to locate the Trachians’ internment camp.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sex, aftermath of battle.

“Patroclus,” a whisper against his skin.

Patroclus stirred, letting out a disgruntled murmur at being woken from comfortable slumber. Most of the sheets were strewn across his body, crumpled around his legs. Automedon had teased him about it endlessly whenever they managed to fall asleep together. 

The latter was pressed up against his back, face buried in his hair. He savored the feeling for a moment, Automedon’s warmth and the solid comfort of his body.  
“What is it?” he whispered back, not wanting to break the silence with his full voice. 

“You should go back. It’s nearly dawn.” Having said this, Automedon gave no sign of goading Patroclus into getting up. His fingers traced the area between Patroclus’ hip and belly button, making circling patterns.

Patroclus turned slightly to see him. The sky outside was still dark, but Automedon was careful about keeping the time when they met like this. He knew the other man was right. Automedon rose and leaned over Patroclus’ half-asleep form. 

“Don’t want you to go,” Patroclus mumbled sadly, unable to stop the tingling behind his eyes.

Their gazes met, and Patroclus saw Automedon purse his lips, his dark eyes struggling to contain their emotion. He could see the moment Automedon lost the fight, his gaze betraying every ounce of regret and trepidation he felt about leaving for the battlefront. It was one thing Patroclus loved about the man. How he gave all of himself to Patroclus, with just one look. 

Automedon brushed the line of Patroclus’ lips, bending to press a kiss on both corners. They were still for a moment, before Automedon released Patroclus and rolled over onto his back. Patroclus watched as he stretched out his sinuous body, apparently unbothered that he lay on hard ground. 

The stirrings of want rose in Patroclus then, and he clambered onto Automedon so they were face-to-face. Smiling up at him languidly, Automedon drew him closer so their mouths met, a teasing flicker of his tongue when Patroclus parted his lips. 

“I can think of other places you can put your mouth,” Automedon teased, and Patroclus leapt forward and bit down on his ear. 

“Like here?” It drew out a chuckle, the sound warm and mellow, making the corners of Patroclus’ lips turn up on their own accord.

Automedon sat up until Patroclus was straddling him, gripped his hips, stroking them as his eyes wandered brazenly over the planes of Patroclus’ body. 

“I see you mean to use me before I leave,” he commented wryly, Patroclus loved when he got like this, the wicked gleam in his eyes. 

“Well, it’s no secret I only want you for your body,” Patroclus replied, leaning forward to place his mouth over Automedon’s throat.

“And here I thought there was something more between us,” Automedon chided, pretending at dejection. 

“It’s your own fault for placing trust in a foreigner,” said Patroclus. 

There was a brief silence, and then Automedon liften him and eased him down, until he was fully seated on Automedon’s cock. He was still slick from the night before, but the sensation of being filled was new every time. Not breaking his gaze, Automedon ground his hips upward slowly and surely, until Patroclus had begun to gasp, and they fell into a steadier rhythm. 

“I like how you make love,” Automedon added, voice low in Patroclus’ ear, as Patroclus started to quicken his pace, nearly sobbing at how it felt. 

“Have I ever told you that, love?” he said, breath getting ragged, the way they rocked into each other. Patroclus buried his face in Automedon’s neck and groaned, the pleasure inside him was building rapidly, he needed to - 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Someone was tapping on his door. Patroclus drew the covers tighter around himself, burrowing even further into the mattress. He was achingly hard, having spent the waking hours again with his thoughts filled of the trysts he and Automedon had gotten up to before the latter left for the north. It didn’t help that he had gotten to the point in his pregnancy where he was prone to bouts of arousal, sometimes at inopportune times. 

The tapping became more urgent. Patroclus sighed and threw off the covers, dragging himself out of bed before Briseis woke up and had to answer the door for him. She slept in a pallet only a wall away, so she would know that someone was at the door. 

Patroclus cracked the door open to see Antilochus’ hopeful expression. 

“What is it, Antilochus? It’s barely dawn.”

“Your highness, they found the camp. I thought you’d like to know,” Antilochus whispered. 

The camp. The prisoners’ camp. 

“Captain Menesthius is leaving today to join the negotiations for the hostages,” Antilochus added. He was still whispering, even though by now Eurypylus had emerged behind him and was frowning in confusion, probably wondering why Antilochus felt the need to whisper at the royal consort in the small hours.

Patroclus’ hushed reaction to the news seemed to worry Antilochus, and he stepped back to await a response. 

“Wait for me, Antilochus. I’m going to get dressed.” 

He hurried away to wake Briseis.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, your highness,” Antilochus remarked as Patroclus strode in the direction of Peleus’ quarters, his steps rushed. 

“I have to,” Patroclus replied, barely sparing Antilochus a glance. 

They reached the wing of the palace where Peleus’ quarters were. Patroclus didn’t think the king would be all too pleased at his request, especially considering the last time he had asked a favor. He paused, catching his breath, and felt Antilochus grasp his elbow in concern. 

“Your highness? What on earth do you think you’re doing?” 

It was Machaon, rushing up to Patroclus with a much older man at his heels, looking anxious. Machaon’s normally tidy curls were unruly, as if he’d spent the last hour running his fingers through them repeatedly. The elderly man behind him looked grave. 

“Machaon. I need to see the king.” Patroclus batted Antilochus away, who was still hovering like a concerned bee. 

“Now is not a good time, your highness!” Machaon exclaimed. He took Patroclus by the arm and tried to usher him away, but Patroclus resisted. 

“You don’t understand, Machaon. They’ve found the prisoners’ camp and are negotiating as we speak! I need to speak to the king and request permission to go.” 

“Patroclus.” Machaon chastised, and from the use of his name Patroclus knew there was something serious going on. 

He looked back and forth between Machaon and the older man.

“What is it? Has something happened to the king?”

Machaon sighed and beckoned towards the older man, who stepped forward and inclined his head at Patroclus. 

“This is Phoinix. He is King Peleus’ most senior advisor. We were just at an audience with the king. He was not pleased. Isn’t that right, Phoinix?” 

Phoinix inclined his head again, this time at Machaon.

“The king was distressed by a surprise visit from Eudoros Echeklides this morning.”

Eudoros?

“He was furious,” Machaon added. 

“What did Eudoros want?” Patroclus voiced, though he was beginning to suspect what Machaon’s answer would be. 

“Eudoros went to the king to propose a plan. A plan of … arrangements for his marriage to Prince Hector of Troy.” Machaon grimaced. 

Patroclus glanced at Phoinix, who confirmed this with a brisk nod. 

“But …” 

It dawned on him then. Eudoros, who hadn’t the least idea that Achilles had already taken Troilus as a consort. 

“Oh, Eudoros,” Patroclus sighed, feeling regretful that the nobleman hadn’t been made aware of the proceedings. He’d just assumed that whatever Achilles did, Eudoros would catch on to it. Apparently, this time Eudoros had been too late.

He thought of the past few nights, at the banquets when Eudoros had been conversing with Hector. Of course, Eudoros had caught on to Achilles’ interest in Troilus. He knew about Achilles’ intentions to take Troilus as a second consort. With his father dead, and Patroclus already expecting a potential male heir, Eudoros had puzzled out the likelihood of his future.

He had known Achilles would never take him as a consort. So he’d made his own plans, caught Hector’s interest, in the hopes that he had a place in another royal house. And he’d gone to Peleus, thinking he could kill two birds with one stone. He assumed that Peleus actually wanted an alliance with Troy, and bided his time so he could bring up the marriage arrangements before Achilles could take Troilus. If he succeeded, his position would be propelled in the Phthian court, being the one who had forged an alliance. And he would be royal consort to the Crown Prince of a more powerful nation. 

There had been a small misstep. Eudoros hadn’t known that Troilus was already Achilles’ second consort, and Peleus was irritated enough as it was to have a Trojan as part of his court, not to mention the fact that Troilus’ brothers still hadn’t left. He’d gone to Peleus at the worst time possible, and effectively thrown himself in disgrace. 

“Eudoros has fallen greatly out of favor with the king, your highness,” said Machaon. Despite his words, Patroclus noticed Machaon couldn’t help looking at least a little pleased. 

“I would advise your highness not to associate with him further. And of course, to wait a few days before you approach the king.” 

Phoinix nodded in agreement.

They accompanied Patroclus back to his chamber, Machaon and Phoinix chattering together all the way. Patroclus’ heart sank as he thought of the negotiations currently being made in the north, and how long it would take before he had a chance to find out how they went.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your highness?” It was Antilochus again. He was peeking in through the doorway, and kept looking back to make sure Eurypylus wasn’t there. 

“Yes, Antilochus?” Patroclus rubbed his eyes in weariness, the anticipation was getting to him. He saw Antilochus looking at the platter of olives and seed biscuits Briseis had laid out, and thought maybe the guard would ask for a few. Briseis sometimes snuck him refreshments during the longer shifts. 

“I … can I come in?” 

Patroclus waved Antilochus in and started to hand him the platter of food. 

“Look, your highness … I might have a way of getting you into the camp.” 

Antilochus glanced at the door again, then took a couple of olives and stuffed them into his mouth. 

This caught Patroclus’ attention. 

“And how would you do that?”

“Captain Menesthius is my uncle. He doesn’t like that I’m a guardsman and not a soldier in his faction, so I think if I ask to go with him to the north, he might think I’m just interested in transferring to the army. I could bring you with me. He won’t care, he doesn’t involve himself in court matters at all. I doubt he even knows what you look like.” 

Patroclus doubted this very much.  
“Antilochus … how is it possible that he doesn’t recognize me?” He gestured to the bump in his middle. 

Antilochus looked embarrassed. 

“Even if he does recognize you, he wouldn’t say anything.” 

“I suppose … But how am I supposed to leave the palace without the king noticing?”

“That’s the thing. Nobody will notice if it’s Captain Menesthius. They’ll just assume he was assigned to escort you, and won’t question his authority.” 

Antilochus paused. 

“Also … maybe don’t wear such nice clothes?”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll tell Briseis not to overdo herself.” 

He caught Antilochus’ gaze then. 

“You don’t know what this means to me, Antilochus.” 

The young guard just shrugged and smiled. 

\---------------------------------------  
They were preparing to meet Captain Menesthius when Machaon intercepted them. 

“Your highness … please don’t tell me you are going to see the king,” he said, in his most resigned tone of voice. 

“I’m not.” Patroclus hesitated. “But, you’re not going to like what I’m doing instead, either.” 

Machaon raised one forbearing eyebrow.

“I’m going to the camp. Antilochus says Captain Menesthius will escort me there.”

“Your highness!” Machaon protested. “You can’t make such a journey in your current condition!” 

“I have to, Machaon. I need to … make sure of something.”

Machaon sighed loudly, but made no further reprimands. 

“I will go with you,” he announced. “If the king finds out about this, he will blame me.” He glared at both Patroclus and Antilochus, waved off any protests they made, and followed them to the army barracks. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, they were exiting through the palace gates, the captain on horseback while Patroclus sat in a carriage with Machaon, guarded by Antilochus and another soldier. Patroclus had not left the palace walls since … well, since he’d arrived in Phthia. He took in his surroundings, fighting off the nausea that had arisen since the carriage started moving. Captain Menesthius eyed him warily from outside. 

The captain hadn’t known who Patroclus was at first, hadn’t even noticed his current condition, but from the deferential way Antilochus treated him, it wasn’t hard to guess. Patroclus was aware he was next to Phthia’s greatest warrior, the most seasoned and accomplished man in the military. Captain Menesthius had a lined, weathered face, and his well-groomed beard was greying. This was a contrast to his muscular form and the way he moved like a man twenty years his junior. Patroclus could tell he still saw Antilochus as a child, from the reproving yet fond exasperation with which he spoke. 

“It’s three days’ ride to the Trachian border. And that is on our fastest steeds,” the older man commented, in his surly tone of voice. 

“That is fine, Uncle Menesthius. I mean, Captain!” Antilochus corrected himself at a sharp look from his uncle.

The captain threw a glance at Patroclus, and was satisfied when Patroclus made no protest. Three days’ ride. Patroclus had already begun to sweat in the carriage, the humid air contributing to his dizziness.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I … still can’t believe that you decided to come, Machaon,” Patroclus admitted, when they were only half a day away from the Trachian camp.

Machaon looked up from his book. Patroclus didn’t know how he managed to read, with the carriage as rocky as it was on the bumpy dirt road. Patroclus could barely sleep, even though Machaon had stuffed the small space with pillows and blankets for his comfort. 

“I admit that I wanted to, your highness. For reasons other than preventing the king’s anger at you.” Machaon paused and frowned. 

“I thought maybe I would be able to offer my assistance, if I went. Some of the wounded must be soldiers from Opus. They ... might not get the same sort of treatment as Phthian soldiers, by Phthian physicians. If you know what I mean. I … used to be a medic, before I became ambassador. In your father’s army.” 

This reluctant admission surprised Patroclus. He’d always thought Machaon was from an aristocratic family. Medics tended not to be from the nobility. It was hard work, and brutal. Machaon must have risen a long way to become an ambassador of Opus in a foreign kingdom. Court officials were usually the sons of noblemen, and it was rare for commoners to be able to land a position. That wasn’t to say that they were prohibited from working as officials, but the competition was steep. And Machaon wasn’t even very old. It made Patroclus look at him with a newfound respect.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At long last, they had arrived on Trachian territory. Captain Menesthius immediately ordered a body of soldiers to escort Patroclus into one of the Phthian tents. It would do no good to allow one of their enemies to catch sight of him. 

The tent was empty, save for a small table and some military documents. Patroclus guessed this was where the scribes kept their records, in private and away from enemy eyes. Antilochus waited with Machaon and Patroclus while the captain announced his arrival to the other negotiators. 

“Antilochus,” Patroclus caught the young guard’s attention. 

“It’s alright, your highness. I don’t think it will take long.”

Patroclus burned with the need to get up and look around. All the tents looked the same. He could tell them apart only by their flags, and the Trachian ones were all the way across the field. Automedon was in one of them. Either that, or in a grave somewhere. This waiting was killing him. 

It was nearly nightfall when Captain Menesthius finally approached them, looking exhausted and annoyed. 

“They have allowed us to see the hostages,” he told Antilochus. “But they will not surrender them to us until we give the order for our forces to retreat from the northeastern pass.” 

“Why the northeastern pass?” Patroclus questioned. 

Captain Menesthius glared at him like he was irritated Patroclus could speak. 

“The Trachians mean to retreat to their fortifications. The northeastern pass is the only way to get there. Our men have been camped there for days, and the Trachians are running out of food.”

“Will our commanders give the order for the men to retreat?”

At this, the captain sighed. “It is no small sacrifice. The troops have been grappling for the upper hand for weeks, months. Now that we finally have an advantage over the Trachians … it will be hard to convince the commanders to give it up.” 

Patroclus frowned up at the captain, unsure what he could say. This was unfamiliar territory, military affairs. 

“Can I see them?” he asked. 

Captain Menesthius stared back at him balefully. 

“Will you take me to the hostages?”

It took some convincing, but the captain eventually agreed to let Antilochus and Patroclus cross over to the Trachian side of the camp. As a former military commander, it would be unwise for the captain himself to be seen meeting the hostages before negotiations were over, as the Trachians might take it as a threat. But medics and messengers were allowed, so the captain handed over badges that bore the symbol of the Phthian heraldry. Machaon had met up with whichever physicians and medics were available, retrieving a medic’s kit and joining them in their tending of the wounded soldiers. 

It was nearing midnight by the time Antilochus and Patroclus crossed over to the long tent where some of the prisoners were said to be kept. Antilochus carried a light; they moved quickly and quietly, keeping their heads down to avoid scrutiny from any Trachian officers who might cross their path. The tent was deadly quiet. As they entered, they had to be careful not to trip over several bodies. Some of the men were simply strewn out on the ground, it was impossible to tell if they lived or not. 

“We should have asked Machaon in here,” Patroclus murmured, letting his gaze roam over the bodies, trying not to look too closely at the severely wounded and dying, but desperate all the same. There were more of them than he had thought. A small group, Peleus had said. Patroclus shook his head, drawing his cloak further around himself, shielding the child that grew within him from the thick atmosphere of suffering men. Antilochus said nothing, more downcast than Patroclus had ever seen him. 

“I don’t think I can be a soldier,” Antilochus muttered, so low Patroclus thought he had mistakenly heard. 

Patroclus cast a final look around him. 

“I can’t … find him.” Feeling helpless and disheartened, he strode to the end of the tent. His breathing had started to quicken, and the dread that had planted itself in his core from the moment they crossed the field threatened to overwhelm him. 

He stumbled, bending over. Sick, he felt sick. 

“Patroclus!” Antilochus’ voice was hushed as he grabbed at Patroclus’ arm, one hand on his back to steady him.  
“Please, let us leave, your highness. I think we should go. This is no… no place for you.” 

“No,” Patroclus gasped, head swimming as hot, frightened tears blurred his vision. How could he feel so hot, yet stone-cold at the same time?

“He’s somewhere in here, we can’t give up now.” 

Antilochus looked around doubtfully. Then he seemed to make a decision, and grabbed Patroclus’ shoulders with a firm expression.

“Your highness, I will look at every man in here. Every single one. I will not miss a single face. But promise me, if I don’t find him, we will leave.” 

Patroclus took a shuddering breath, and nodded. 

Antilochus strode back to the beginning of the tent and started his search. He looked for a long time, even gently turning over the men who could have been already dead. Patroclus stayed on the other side of the tent, trying to regain his composure, while continuing to look for himself. 

It seemed like hours. They heard the marching of the soldiers outside, and both froze and kept their heads down at the sudden bursts of noise. It didn’t seem like anyone was going to come in, but the clamor of footsteps, metal, and Trachian voices raised the hairs on the back of Patroclus’ neck. 

At one point he turned around and found Antilochus gone. 

“Antilochus?” Patroclus called out, wincing at the sound of his own wavering voice. 

Several moments passed, and there was no response. Patroclus’ hands started to shake. He backed into a corner of the tent, steadying his breaths as he tried to think where Antilochus could have gone. Would a Trachian soldier have taken him … ? Patroclus shook the thought from his mind; it would not do to let fear cloud him like this. 

He was beginning to give up and plan his path back to the Phthian side alone, conjuring the words he would say to Captain Menesthius.  
“We went, and Antilochus just disappeared. I don’t know where he is.” 

Having to look the captain in the face as he realized his nephew was now a captive of the enemy. Wringing his hands, he took a few cautious steps towards the exit. And then the tent flap was shoved aside, making him jump back in alarm.  
\------------------------------------------

“I found him,” Antilochus said, softly, but it seemed to ring in Patroclus’ ears. 

“There is another tent. They lied to us when they claimed that all the hostages were here.” 

He took Patroclus’ wrist and led him, a step ahead so that his body shielded Patroclus from open danger when they left the tent. 

This other location was in a more closed-off area, where it was not as easily distinguishable from the tents of the Trachian officers, their flags waving everywhere Patroclus turned. 

“How did you know to look here?” Patroclus asked.

“I saw medics leave that tent, when I was watching the Trachians earlier today. It didn’t cross my mind our men might be in there. But when I couldn’t find anyone in the other place … I just thought of this. I had to take the chance.” 

They had reached a smaller tent, almost invisible in the dark shadows of the night. Antilochus had gotten rid of his light, but produced another one from under his cloak. He pushed aside the tent flap and nodded to Patroclus to enter. 

Patroclus went in, the pit in his stomach deepening with every step. He took the light from Antilochus, and nearly burned his hand with it as he lifted it to cast light around the area, so badly was he shaking. 

And there he saw him. 

Automedon. 

Patroclus ran to him, a cry of relief threatening to burst out. 

Automedon was slumped in a corner of the tent, half-seated, half-laid out, a dirty sheet of cloth covering him like a makeshift blanket. His eyes were shut, but Patroclus saw the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. 

“Automedon?” he croaked, lifting the light so it wasn’t in the other man’s face, but enough to see him. He reached out and touched Automedon’s face. 

He was so pale, whiter than Patroclus had ever seen him, although bathed in shadow. The dark waves of his hair clung to his forehead, and his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. 

“Automed…” Patroclus lost his voice, and struggled to recover it. 

“Do you hear me? It’s Patroclus, love.”

Automedon gave no sign of stirring. Patroclus waited for one torturous moment.

Then slowly, the eyelids fluttered, and Automedon cracked open his eyes. He looked dazed for a second, but his gaze rested on Patroclus and cleared. 

Taking a few shallow breaths, Automedon sat up a little straighter.  
“Patroclus.” 

Patroclus managed a watery smile. “I’m here.” He shifted closer so he could lean his cheek against Automedon’s forehead. 

Automedon let out a raspy chuckle. “What exactly have you done, Patroclus?”

He still looked weary, but the flame was back in his eyes, which were bruised and darkened with loss of sleep. He was so beautiful.

“Drugged the soldiers so you could sneak in and find me?” 

Patroclus returned the laugh, although his throat hurt. For the past hour, it had felt like a noose had been tightening around his neck. Automedon just looked at him, as though there was no hurry at all. 

“Really. What did it take, for you to be here right now?” 

“Stop. I can’t have you worrying. I’m here to take you home,” Patroclus chided, gently brushing Automedon’s hair back from his forehead. Automedon gave a slow shudder, reaching up to take Patroclus’ hand. The skin of his wrist was rubbed raw, red and angry, the mark of rope or chain, something that had been confining him. Patroclus paused and took a closer look at Automedon, raising the light so it showed more of him. 

There was a lot of dried blood on him, on his collar and down his sleeve. Patroclus drew back the sheet that was covering him, grimacing at how much dirt there was mixed with crusted blood. And then he saw. 

Automedon’s arm was gone. His left arm, which had been covered by the sheet. All that remained was a stump, the blood around it nearly black. It was bandaged, the bloodflow having been stopped, but the look of it - Patroclus could only stare, frozen in silent horror. 

Automedon grimaced, not really looking. His gaze flickered behind Patroclus then, and Patroclus remembered Antilochus was there. He swung around. Antilochus had been standing at the entrance of the tent, on the lookout, but his attention was on them now. There was a new realization in his eyes as he looked at Patroclus crouched in front of Automedon. He saw Automedon’s wound. Patroclus met his gaze.

“Antilochus,” he said. “Antilochus, please go to Machaon. Tell him I beg him to come here.”

Antilochus said nothing, nearly still as a statue as he observed the scene. 

Whatever strength Patroclus had left was starting to ebb, leaving him numb with despair. 

“Antilochus,” he quavered. “Please. Antilochus.”

Antilochus looked at Automedon, a crease in between his brows. 

And then he nodded. “I’ll get him,” he whispered, sounding unhappy. 

Patroclus exhaled, and turned back to Automedon, who studied him quietly. 

“What happened?” Patroclus asked, angry tears filling his eyes as he looked at the stump, looking at the rest of Automedon, making sure there wasn’t some other horrific wound that was hidden from view. 

The corner of Automedon’s mouth twitched, he looked torn between finding an answer and merely staring back at Patroclus. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

The tears spilled.

“I’m so sorry I’ve done this.”

Patroclus wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Don’t. I said I would bring you home. You only have to wait until Machaon gets here. Please, wait.” He was pleading, as though Automedon had any control on how the wound would fester. Patroclus could see it now, the brightness in Automedon’s eyes; it wasn’t relief at having been discovered, it was fever. The wound was surely infected. 

A small smile crossed Automedon’s face then, and he brushed a finger against the wetness on Patroclus’ face. They waited together, in silence, and Automedon laid his head against Patroclus’ shoulder. 

“And if he doesn’t come?” he whispered. 

“Shh,” said Patroclus, gripping Automedon’s hand so tightly, thumbs stroking gently against the redness of the wrist. Automedon moved his hand then, sluggishly, so it rested against Patroclus’ middle. 

“He’s grown so much.” His head leaned forward to look closer. “Or she.” 

The tight coil of tension in Patroclus’ chest unwound itself, and he squeezed Automedon’s hand. “It’s been a while.” 

“Have you been alright?” The sound of Automedon’s voice. How he had missed this. 

“As alright as I could be. Save your breath, love. Machaon can’t be long now.” 

Automedon only nodded, and closed his eyes again.  
\-----------------------------------------------

Patroclus was beginning to panic that he wouldn’t open them again, but then the tent flap was thrown wide, and Automedon’s eyelids flicked up, alert. 

“We ran,” Antilochus gasped. “They might have seen us. We have to be quick.” 

Machaon had wasted no time and was already at Automedon’s side. 

“Fuck.” 

He knelt next to Automedon, and carefully inspected the stump. 

“Gods.”

“Yes, fuck the gods indeed,” Automedon agreed, amusement beginning to color his expression. Patroclus shushed him, feeling disbelief that Automedon could see any humor at all in the situation. 

“Machaon? How bad … what can you do for him?” Patroclus changed the question, because it was obvious how bad it was. 

Machaon was already fumbling in his kit. “We need to get him out of here,” he muttered. “He is not going to survive staying here any longer.”

“But the negotiations …” Patroclus’ heart sank. “They’re not going to order the troops away, are they?”

Machaon glanced at Antilochus, a silent question in his eyes. Antilochus looked back and forth at all of them. He seemed to be struggling with some internal battle. But then he looked at Automedon again and bit his lip. 

“There’s a wagon, meant to transport food for the men.” He looked like he immediately regretted speaking, but shook it off and continued.  
“I can take him,” he beckoned with his chin at Automedon.  
“It will fit three people.” He fixed his gaze on Machaon then.  
“If you come with us, and watch him all the way, will we have a chance?”

“It’s worth trying,” said Machaon. He moved his arms behind Automedon, helping him sit up even more.  
“I will give him something for the pain. As for you,” he turned to Patroclus.  
“You will go to Captain Menesthius and ask him to take you home.” 

Patroclus started to object, but the furiously urgent look Machaon pinned on him stopped him short. 

“If the king finds out you are gone, there might not be a point to us doing any of this. We’ve already been here too long. You must go now, your highness.”

Patroclus looked at Automedon, who quirked a tired smile at him. 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Patroclus said, and leaned down to kiss the tips of his fingers. 

He felt both Antilochus’ and Machaon’s stares on him. He didn’t care anymore, didn’t care if the world knew. 

Antilochus blocked his path as he reached the exit of the tent. Whatever Antilochus’ inner struggle had been, he seemed to have made up his mind. 

“I will see him home, your highness.” He clapped a hand on Patroclus’ shoulder. Patroclus could only nod and hurry back to the Phthian line.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Menesthius had agreed to take Patroclus back to the palace with extreme trepidation, having noticed his nephew was missing. Patroclus tried his best to explain Antilochus’ absence, without revealing what they were really up to. 

The journey back was unsettlingly tense, Patroclus curled up in the carriage gnawing at his fingers, unable to take much more. If Antilochus and Machaon were intercepted … If they didn’t get back in time … A thousand different worries, and he had more problems awaiting him when they arrived in Phthia. He’d had Briseis cover his absence, forging an excuse that the royal consort was bedridden, the pregnancy making him ill. It was shaky reasoning, but highly unlikely that either the king or Achilles would enter his quarters to see for themselves. He was holding on to hope that Achilles was occupied with Troilus, and Peleus still too angered to pay much attention to anything else.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were in the palace, and Captain Menesthius said nothing as he escorted Patroclus back to his quarters. Antilochus had been right about the man. Whatever his misgivings, he did not question Patroclus or demand explanations. He truly felt as though the affairs of the royals were none of his concern. Patroclus thanked him profusely, but the captain only gave a stoic grunt and went on his way.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Briseis,” Patroclus called, as soon as he was inside his chamber. Briseis emerged, a look of profound relief on her face as soon as she saw him.

“Oh, thank the gods you’re back, Patroclus.”

“Was anyone looking for me?”

“Podalirius came by, but he was looking for Machaon. No one else sent for you.” 

Patroclus breathed a sigh of relief. 

“The guard outside. The other one. He was getting suspicious. I don’t know what would have happened if someone came looking for you and he heard me making excuses. I think he suspected you weren’t in the room. I had to convince him to leave his shift when I saw Captain Menesthius arriving out the window.” 

“It’s alright, Briseis.” Patroclus patted her shoulder. 

“I am grateful for what you’ve done. You didn’t have to do it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Briseis. She looked him up and down. 

“Where exactly have you been?” 

“I’ll explain later,” Patroclus sighed.  
“You can explain while I get a bath filled. Goodness, Patroclus. I don’t know what is going on, but you better be more careful from now on.”  
\----

She managed to get him to eat a full meal after his bath, and then Patroclus got up for a walk, unable to take sitting in his chambers any longer, casting anxious glances at the window, waiting to see if a wagon had entered the courtyard. 

“Just a few minutes, and then you’re coming back here and I’m giving you some hot tea and sweetbread,” Briseis insisted. 

He nodded assent, then went out into the hallway, thankful that Eurypylus had not returned from his shift. He didn’t think he could stand the sound of footsteps behind him, not when he’d just returned from that place. 

He paused when he reached the next set of chambers. Troilus had been placed in the rooms next to Patroclus’, separated only by a corridor, and several sets of doors. There was nothing he could do about it; all the consorts were placed in the same wing of the palace. Once, the entire wing had been full, when past kings had had harems of consorts and concubines. He was about to turn away from Troilus’ chambers, unwilling to cross paths with the Trojan prince, when he heard Hector’s voice. 

Why was Hector…? 

The Trojans had not completely taken their departure, Hector and Deiphobus staying behind to witness Achilles’ union with their brother, but there was no reason why Hector would be in Troilus’ chambers. As the elder brother, and higher-ranked than Troilus, he would have summoned Troilus to his own quarters rather than the other way around. 

Patroclus shook it off, continuing his step, but the voices got louder. It was Troilus who was shouting. Hesitating, he drew nearer, and slipped between two pillars to hide himself from view. 

He could see Troilus and Hector inside the main sitting room, and Troilus was … weeping. Hector frowned down at him, looking immensely displeased. 

“ - beg of you, do not leave me here, brother!” 

“Troilus. You will stop this at once.”

“Please. Hector, if you care for me at all -”

“Don’t. You know how important this is. It took us coming here twice, and we finally have the alliance we wanted. Peleus already despises us, we’re on rocky ground as it is.”

“There has to be another way. You were working on it, with Prince Achilles! You didn’t say anything about me staying here!” 

“It is done. You are his consort. Now I suggest you accept it and start finding your place here. You are a prince of Troy, and second place. It’s not ideal, but I can make father understand.” 

“He already has a consort! Why did he - I shouldn’t have to be here! Hector, you saw! They are having a child! I will never belong here. I beg you, take me home.” 

“Stop.” Hector’s voice had darkened with a much deeper fury, and he placed both hands on Troilus’ shoulders. 

“I will not have you ruin everything we’ve worked for because of your selfishness. We have spent the better part of a year negotiating with the Phthians, trying to find common ground. They need us, and we need them. You will turn aside your own interests.” Hector sighed. 

“You’re not a boy any longer, Troilus. As much as I hate to - and yes, don’t think I want to leave you here alone, any more than you do - there are times when we have to make sacrifices. Your marriage to Achilles gave us an alliance. It would not have happened otherwise. Father will be thankful to you. But you must learn to accept it. It will only make this harder if you don’t.” 

Troilus had put his head in his hands by now, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. 

“You know we mean to take the north. As much as I hate to admit it, we cannot do it without the Phthians. They already hold too much of it. If we help them defeat the Trachians, it will pave the way for Arisbe. And then we move forward from there.” Hector drew Troilus into his arms, his grip firm yet gentle. 

“You must do your duty, Troilus. It is for the greater good.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus felt ill as he turned away from the scene, having heard enough. He’d had his suspicions, but … he shook his head. Another thing to worry about. He would have to talk to Peleus, when the king was willing to hear what he had to say. If not, then Achilles, but the latter would be much harder to convince. He didn’t know if Achilles would even listen to him, not with everything that had happened lately, but he had other things on his mind now. 

He found himself in the main courtyard that connected to the road, where messengers, carriages, and other forms of transport arrived and departed. Briseis would be fuming that he hadn’t returned to eat and rest, but his mind was too agitated to bear sitting still for any longer. 

The sentries posted at the yard gave him nervous, puzzled glances as he paced around. It couldn’t be too long now. Unless something had happened to stop them. He realized the sun had set when Briseis came out to stand next to him. She gave him a long-suffering sigh, then put her arms around him. They waited. 

The sky turned gold and lavender, pink and blue, and then twilight fell. The first stars started to make their appearance. Patroclus looked up, as it grew darker and the constellations formed their constant patterns. Glaucus and Diomedes. They were up there, and he held on to the sight of them, the beat of his heart kept steady and strong with whatever hope they could give him.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Briseis patted his back, about to retire, when the sound of hooves clapped onto the pavement, and out of the darkness a wagon rounded the corner into the driveway. It was covered to conceal the occupants, and one of the sentries stepped forward. 

“Looks like supplies for the army,” he called. Then frowned. “What would that be doing here?” He motioned to the other sentry, who handed him a lamp, and they walked over to the wagon. Patroclus clutched at Briseis, pulse starting to quicken. Machaon climbed out then, a pale figure as he descended the vehicle on unsteady feet. Patroclus surged forward, new strength flowing into his steps as he neared them, his heart alight. He could almost leap at Machaon in an embrace, knowing the older man had taken this journey, despite knowing everything.

The sentries had started unloading the wagon now, looking confused but unthreatened by Machaon’s sudden appearance. Patroclus could now make up two dark shapes, and he kept on, needing to see them, needing so much.

He took the lamp from the sentry without looking at him, and he could make out Antilochus’ face now. Automedon was seated next to the younger guard, leaning against him for support. Patroclus released the breath he had been holding and started up the loading step, holding his arm out to help Antilochus down. 

Antilochus’ face was white, dried tears marking the skin. 

“He died,” he said.


	16. Chapter 16

Catching their breath, they had finally started to untangle from each other’s embrace, reluctantly moving away. Patroclus picked up his discarded clothes, and slowly rose, clutching them to his chest. He lowered them then, letting Automedon look at him. The other man was still seated, not bothering to get dressed, and their eyes met in silent understanding. 

They had stayed like that; Patroclus in Automedon’s lap, being cradled desperately and lovingly, until the hours after midnight. He felt a shiver run through his body, being separated from the heat of Automedon’s skin, and something in his head, in his chest; some light feeling that made him want to laugh and weep at the same time. Happiness. He was happy it had happened. 

He and Automedon continued looking at each other, and unable to help himself, Patroclus let out a laugh. Automedon’s eyes crinkled at him, and he laughed too. Then Patroclus crept up towards Automedon and brought his face closer, kissing him, rubbing their noses together. Automedon looked awed by Patroclus’ tenderness. He grabbed Patroclus’ tunic and tossed it aside again, bringing his mouth down to kiss Patroclus’ chest, his stomach, hands wandering over him. 

“I think I’d better let you go,” Automedon murmured, still sucking on a spot at the place where Patroclus’ thigh met his hip. 

Patroclus carded his fingers through Automedon’s hair, it was soft, softer than he’d imagined. He traced the dark eyebrows, ran his fingertips over the long lashes … the elation seemed to rise around him like a mist.

He couldn’t stop grinning then, even later on when he was back in his own bed, reimagining the feeling of the other man, the scent of him.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a scream outside, and the crash of something heavy.

Patroclus covered his head with his blanket and kept his eyes closed. He could hear Briseis and some other servants, their startled footsteps, hurrying outside to see what the commotion was. 

The sound of someone crying. 

Patroclus covered his ears, the noise grating at him; he ignored it, letting the dull ache in his core cloud his senses. Briseis came back inside and gently touched his arm. 

“Patroclus, will you come out?” A long pause.

He couldn’t ignore Briseis, she didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Rising with great reluctance, he looked over his shoulder. 

“What is it?” his voice was a small croak, and he was groggy, feeling like he’d come up from a long sleeping spell. The sadness in Briseis’ eyes made him want to hide under the covers again, but he forced himself to face her. 

“Please, will you come out of bed and speak to Troilus?”

He really didn’t want to. Seeing Briseis’ anxious expression, he grudgingly nodded.

“Alright,” he whispered, and let her help him out of bed. 

He sludged along the side of the bed, where Briseis had prepared a bowl of water to wash his face. The water stung his eyes, which were swollen and crusted closed. The nights had been … 

He was sad again, when he thought of how Briseis must have had to listen from her pallet, when he sobbed himself to sleep in his bed. He’d tried to be quiet, but there were times when he felt as though there was no air at all, and would gasp out like a fish out of water, a pain in his chest so tight it was like his heart had turned into a heavy stone. 

He accepted the robe when Briseis put it around him, brushing his hair carefully with her fingers. She didn’t make him change into proper garments; they had formed some sort of compromise where Patroclus left the bed and ate everything she prepared for him without objection, while she wouldn’t force him to wear official attire and go out of the room for very long. 

The sunlight hurt when he stepped out, avoiding looking at Antilochus, who had been withdrawn and distraught lately. Briseis led him by the hand to the chambers across the hallway, as though he didn’t know where Troilus lived. 

It was a mess, inside, clothing strewn everywhere. Did Troilus not have servants…? There were shards of broken pottery on the floor, a large vase had toppled over. Or someone had thrown it. Troilus sat on the floor next to the bed, a small and crumpled figure. Patroclus didn’t know why he didn’t just use the bed. It was far more comfortable than the floor, and Patroclus thought of his own bed, that he would get back to once he’d finished with this. 

“What happened here?” he asked, softly, so as not to startle the younger man. 

Troilus jumped anyway, looking up at Patroclus in disbelief. His face was red from crying, but he was still pretty. 

“What … what are you doing here?” Troilus responded, after a moment. He looked like Patroclus made him nervous.   
“What do you want?”

“I want you to stop causing my attendants worry.” 

Patroclus looked around the chambers. They were nearly identical to his, in layout, with a different color scheme, but not as ornately decorated. He fixed his gaze back on Troilus. 

“Please stop crying and yelling. It makes them nervous.”

He turned to leave, feeling wooden, when Troilus stopped him.

“Wait, it wasn’t my fault!” Troilus slowly got up from the floor, brushing himself off. He was dressed only in a plain shift, Trojan-style, and barefoot. He saw Patroclus looking at his attire and flushed. 

“My, uh … things haven’t arrived from Troy yet.” 

What things? Patroclus hadn’t been allowed to keep much with him when he arrived, most of what he owned now were allowances sanctioned by the king and Achilles, or gifts from other courts. No one had given Troilus anything. 

Troilus continued speaking. “I … Prince Achilles was in here, and I was upset. He was very angry with me. It was him who was yelling. I swear, I would never disturb your retinue on purpose.” 

Patroclus stared back, not really caring, but too tired to argue.   
“Where is Prince Achilles now?”

“He stormed off. He …” Troilus pointed at the broken vase. “He threw that in a fit of rage, and then he just left.” 

Patroclus exhaled. “I will have Briseis send someone to clean up the mess.”

Troilus looked surprised. “... Thank you. I thank you, your highness-?”

“Patroclus,” he corrected, and started to walk away. So Troilus didn’t have any servants after all. Perhaps Hector would send for some, from Troy. 

“Wait,” said Troilus again.

Patroclus grumbled in his mind, what more did he want?

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

“...Kind?” Patroclus queried.

“You must hate me,” Troilus explained. “You’re …” he looked at Patroclus’ swollen belly, flushing.   
“And I’m here…”

The boy was so eloquent. 

Patroclus really wasn’t up to explaining just how much he didn’t care that Troilus was here, as long as Troilus didn’t bother Briseis and her staff with whatever quarrels he had with Achilles. 

“I’m going to go back to my room now,” said Patroclus. “Try to keep it down.”

He saw Briseis waiting in the doorway, casting sympathetic glances at Troilus.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Antilochus was fidgeting when they got back to the room, worrying at his lip. His head snapped up when he noticed Patroclus and moved to intercept him. They didn’t look at each other. 

“Captain Menesthius is here to see you, your highness,” Antilochus murmured. 

This surprised Patroclus. Captain Menesthius had barely acknowledged Patroclus even when they’d been working together for similar purposes. What could he possibly want?

“He is waiting in your receiving room,” Antilochus added, and held the door open, looking at the ground. 

The captain had been standing in a corner with his arms crossed, looking his usual reticent self. He nodded his head when he saw Patroclus. Patroclus didn’t have the strength. He waited wearily for the captain to speak. 

The captain cleared his throat, looking like it physically hurt him to have to address a royal on his own accord. 

“Your highness. I am here to … discuss something with you.” 

“I trust you’ve found a way to arrange for the hostages’ safe return?” Patroclus responded, wishing the captain would just get it over with. Briseis stood next to him, and the captain eyed her suspiciously before moving on. 

“It’s about the Strategos.”

Patroclus cringed, looking away and pursing his lips. He couldn’t. 

“Captain,” he managed, after closing his eyes for a moment. 

“Please. Just … let me be.”

Captain Menesthius looked taken aback, but shook his head and continued. 

“Your highness, I am here to request a favor of you. I wouldn’t be asking otherwise, but it is of the utmost urgency.” He paused, waiting to see if Patroclus would make further objection. “Strategos Automedon trained under my mentorship. I had a great deal of respect for the man. When I heard of his death, I admit I was relieved his body had been smuggled out of the camp, and volunteered to take charge of his funerary arrangements. His father … His father was a colleague of mine.” The captain said nothing further, but Patroclus had a feeling he was anxious at what Patroclus would say. 

Patroclus’ hands had started to tremble a little at hearing the words, but he looked the captain in the eye.

“What is it that you need?” 

“By Phthian law, the funerary rituals must be observed within seven days of burial. It is even more stringent in the military. Strategos Automedon was a revered warrior, and is entitled to full military honors befitting a general. I had started to arrange for the rituals to begin, but … I cannot do so when the body has not been buried.”

There was a long silence as Patroclus struggled to process the captain’s words. 

“What do you mean,” he finally said, slowly. “What do you mean he hasn’t been buried?” 

Captain Menesthius grimaced, his lined face more severe than ever.   
“Prince Achilles has not allowed the Strategos’ burial.” 

Patroclus’ insides, which had seemed frozen for the past few days, slowly started to give way to melting heat. Automedon hadn’t been buried. His hands clenched.

“It is … an insult, your highness. This has never happened before. To war criminals, maybe, but a respected general?” The captain looked about as livid as Patroclus had started to feel.   
“I do not know why the prince does this. As far as I know, he was good friends with the Strategos. The prince has denied my requests for an audience. That was when I thought of you. I thought … you were willing to travel to the northern front to see the hostages, when even the prince did not do so.” The captain now acknowledged Patroclus with the tiniest bit of grudging respect.   
“I thought you might be willing to speak to him. I had to try, anyway.” 

Patroclus’ gut clenched at the thought of speaking to Achilles. He had given him Troilus, and it wasn’t enough. Achilles was finding some way to punish him, even though it was apparent he hadn’t said anything about the affair to anyone else. He hadn’t even seemed bothered. Patroclus remembered the nonchalant way Achilles had brought it up, as though asking Patroclus about the weather. 

“Thank you for coming to me about this, Captain Menesthius. I will see that Strategos Automedon is buried,” Patroclus heard himself speak, even though he hadn’t planned to. 

The captain looked surprised and doubtful, then satisfied. He nodded his head again and briskly left the chambers. 

Patroclus went to his bed and sank down on it. Gods, he didn’t have anything left. Facing Achilles was the last thing he wanted to do at this moment. He had nothing - nothing else to offer, no bargaining chips. Troilus had proved to be a bad match, and Patroclus couldn’t risk going to Peleus. He was hollow. Nothing but a husk. Achilles would take what was left and tear it apart.

“Briseis,” Patroclus called. 

She came running, looking like she expected him to tell her someone else had died.

“I need to get dressed. Will you send Antilochus to request an audience with Achilles?”   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t expected Achilles to agree. But here he was, seated in front of the prince, more formal than they’d ever been with each other. Achilles seemed distracted, a downward tilt to his mouth. He was displeased about something. 

Achilles saw Patroclus fumbling for something to say, and raised a hand rather solemnly.   
“I did tell you what would happen, Patroclus,” he offered, as though stating the obvious. 

Patroclus didn’t answer. How was he supposed to ask? Well, might as well get on with it.   
“Captain Menesthius approached me and said the body hasn’t been buried. He can’t observe the proper funeral rites without burial. I’m here to ask that you allow the burial to take place. It is lawful, after all.” 

Achilles hadn’t been expecting Patroclus’ matter-of-fact attitude, and frowned. 

“Really.” He leaned back in his chair, resting his chin in one hand.  
“So that’s how you did it. Captain Menesthius.” A little amused quirk of his lips, and it made Patroclus’ skin crawl. 

“He was very concerned that you were denying something so important. I did not tell him, of course, how you have a habit of murdering your friends.” 

Achilles’ gaze snapped up to meet Patroclus’, suddenly sharp. His head was thrown back as though slapped. 

“I did not murder Automedon,” he growled lowly, after a moment’s silence. 

“He told me you had grown up together,” Patroclus replied. “You don’t send a friend into battle, then leave him to die when he is captured by the enemy.” Patroclus rubbed his temple, which had begun to ache.   
“I suppose you don’t sleep with your friends’ consorts either, but I think it’s clear which grievance is the worse.” 

Achilles had fallen silent, breathing hard. Patroclus’ words had affected him in some way. He stared at Patroclus for a while, as though wanting to get up and slap him, but didn’t move. Patroclus placed the look in his eyes, was shocked to see it. It was shame. 

The air in the room was thick with tension. Achilles wouldn’t stop looking at Patroclus. Finally, he closed his eyes for a moment. 

“I did think of him as a friend. We trained together, in the military academy, and then he was selected as my charioteer for the battle against Lindos.” 

“Then why are you doing this?” Patroclus burst out, suddenly, helplessly agitated. 

Achilles had collected himself, and looked at Patroclus from the sides of his eyes. He shook his head slowly, the downward tilt of his mouth deepening.

“Oh, Patroclus. Did you really think you could have it all?” 

He rose then, and circled the room. “Did you think I was blinded by friendship, and that you could escape what you’ve done?”

Patroclus frowned. Somehow he didn’t think Achilles was referring to his infidelity. The way Achilles was reacting, it was … he was responding to a loss of power. Something he had no control over. As much of a betrayal it must have been for his consort to have an affair with one of his friends, Achilles hadn’t at all been powerless in that situation. In fact, it had given him even more control, over life and death. 

If he’d breathed a word to Peleus, both Patroclus and Automedon could have been taken away and put to death. And he had appointed Automedon as Strategos. He might not have anticipated that Automedon would get captured by the Trachians, but he’d shown Patroclus what happened if he got too close. He’d … it was some game to him, and he hadn’t been against the two of them being together. It was when things turned out in ways he didn’t expect, couldn’t change, that he didn’t like. Patroclus could think of one thing Achilles had no control over. 

“Troilus doesn’t want you,” he said, the realization full-force. 

When the cruel turn of Achilles’ lips bent into a sneer, he knew he had it right. 

“He never did. And you thought you could … what, change him? Take away everything he had so there was no choice but to turn to you? But it’s not working. He’s afraid of you, but he won’t obey you. He’s a Trojan prince, Achilles. Did you think he was raised the same way as - the same way as I was?” 

Patroclus knew he was starting to battle a storm, the way Achilles’ gaze had darkened. He didn’t know if he would make it. 

“You asked for him, Achilles. You asked Peleus to let you have him. All I did was get you what you wanted. Why must I be punished for this?” 

Achilles moved up to Patroclus then, and took his chin with one hand. 

“I wonder what gives you courage to say these things to me, Patroclus.” He hadn’t stopped looking angry, but his voice was calm. 

“I wonder if you’d be as brave if I took Automedon’s body, and hung it from the walls. I could put it on display for all Phthia to see. There is the man who defiled the royal consort!, the people would say. And you would watch the birds peck out his eyes.”

Patroclus shuddered. 

“You must have liked looking into his eyes when he fucked you, isn’t that right?” 

Patroclus pressed his lips together, and didn’t waver from Achilles’ gaze. 

“You can punish me for Troilus’ behavior, but Automedon is dead. Let him have some peace. Tell Peleus what I’ve done, and he will put me to death. There is your recompense.” 

Whatever Achilles had been expecting Patroclus to say, it wasn’t this. The anger cleared for him then, and he released Patroclus’ chin. After a moment’s pause, he looked at Patroclus, an odd glint in his eyes. 

“I do like you, Patroclus,” he said, in an almost pleasant voice. 

“Hmm. It almost makes me regret the things I do to you.”

What did he mean? Patroclus had no idea how to react to this turn of conversation. 

“You…” Patroclus hesitated. “You didn’t have a choice but to marry me. But you had a choice with Troilus. I can see why -”

“Didn’t have a choice?” Achilles smiled then. “Why, of course I had a choice. I asked my father to bring you to me.” 

The floor was threatening to give out under Patroclus. He stared at Achilles, looking for any trace of a lie. But Achilles wouldn’t lie, not when it did nothing to suit his purposes. 

“I liked the way you looked at me,” Achilles added, relaxing as though he was about to launch into a story. 

“Do you remember? When you came with your father, the time we’d had an alliance with Scyros and all the kingdoms came to pay tribute. You must have been, what? Twelve? Thirteen?” 

“I was eleven,” Patroclus said, the memory flashing in his mind. 

“I thought of you, when my father was wanting a new alliance. I imagined what it would be like to have someone who looked at me like you did, unguarded, innocent … not expecting anything at all. And then you were here, and you were so eager to please.” Achilles nodded, as though watching their story unfold in his mind. 

“I did like you even then. You were uncomplicated. And a good lay. It was all I really cared about. I didn’t even mind so much when you started seeing Automedon. Was I a little jealous? Certainly. I didn’t want to share you. But the way you two went on, always looking over your shoulder, unsure if you would get caught - I suppose that amused me.” Achilles didn’t notice how stiff Patroclus had gotten.

“I started to pay closer attention, the way you obviously had no idea how to do things in our court, yet you did them anyway. How you noticed things. How you learned to defend yourself, using whatever you saw. You were surprising. It was like watching a child learn to walk. I grew rather attached to it.” 

Achilles was examining his fingernails by now, deep in contemplation. 

“It made me feel excited, having you by my side, weathering through our opponents. I did hope you weren’t swayed by my father. But even then, you expected nothing from me.” 

Patroclus thought, then, of what it was like for Achilles. His admirers, the courtiers clamoring for his attention. Eudoros, who wanted him so he could become a consort in a royal house. Achilles was right. Patroclus hadn’t expected anything from him. Perhaps Achilles had come to respect him, but realized Patroclus had filled a new position, leaving an old one. Achilles didn’t like to be denied anything. He wanted someone to give in to his every whim, and while he might have enjoyed watching Patroclus learn to navigate court life, there was something missing when Patroclus was no longer the naive, submissive partner he’d been. Achilles had been counting on Troilus to fill that void. 

Patroclus squeezed at his forehead, getting control of the thoughts swimming in his mind. So Achilles liked to toy with emotions, liked to confuse people. It amused him to see how they dealt with it. But he was also fascinated when people weren’t what he expected. He was fascinated with Troilus, for not caving in to Achilles at all, but it was also frustrating. This was too much. They had lost track of time, and Patroclus needed to make sure of one thing. 

“You still mean to punish me?” he voiced. “Even after telling me all of this?”

Achilles looked at him, then straightened and moved away. 

“I will not give my approval for the burial.” 

Whatever spell they’d been in was broken. 

Patroclus nodded grimly. “Alright. I will ask you again tomorrow.”

He got up, inclined his head, and left, ignoring the look of disbelief on Achilles’ face.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“There is unrest among the men that their Strategos has been denied the full honors,” Captain Menesthius muttered, keeping his voice low as he paced in front of the door. 

“I’m working on it, captain,” Patroclus replied. 

The captain grunted unhappily, his hands on his hips. “You realize this is even worse as negotiations for the hostages continue? We will have dead coming back, their families expecting proper rites, and with even a general -” 

“I know, captain. Prince Achilles does not take into account what it looks like from the outside.” Patroclus’ thoughts were beginning to whirl. He knew the king was technically the head of the military, and Achilles would be as well. Yet, the real commanders were the soldiers they sent out into the battlefield. Men like Captain Menesthius, Diores, Automedon himself. Achilles had only been in battle once, when Phthia had conquered Lindos. Although he was trained to be a warrior, he was the future king, and his life could not be risked. It was a rite of passage for Crown Princes to lead their men into battle, but this would not be the case for every war. Especially not with enemies as dangerous as the Trachians. Which meant that the men were more likely to side with a general they respected, who fought alongside them, than their prince who had not even attended negotiations for the prisoners of war. 

Was it possible that - he caught Antilochus’ eye then. They hadn’t spoken since that dreaded night. It hurt to look at Antilochus. He hadn’t been able to, because it brought tears to his eyes and he wasn’t able to control himself. 

The way Antilochus had looked, the way he’d gently maneuvered Automedon’s body, covering it with a blanket before slowly lifting it. Antilochus, who just a few days before had discovered a betrayal to the prince he served. He’d carried Automedon’s body all the way to the catacombs, where they kept dead soldiers who were not claimed by their families. He’d sat in a wagon for three days with Automedon dying next to him. 

Patroclus had no words to say to the guardsman. It wasn’t merely gratitude, or shame; just a deep despair they both shared, a great chasm between them that they had no idea how to cross. 

Antilochus finally shared Patroclus’ gaze, as though acknowledging the difficulty of sharing what they’d experienced, and the plans he could see Patroclus had started to form.

He looked at Captain Menesthius then.   
“Uncle, I wish to transfer to the army. Will you take me to the barracks tomorrow?”   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I will be leaving for Troy soon,” said Hector, accompanying Patroclus on his walk after having left his brother’s chambers. 

“I suppose you must miss it,” Patroclus observed. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, but couldn’t just ask Hector to go away. If Hector noticed any shift in temperament, he didn’t comment. 

“I will have to get used to Phthia. I’ll be coming here often, seeing as we are now allies. My father will not allow the task to fall to one of my younger brothers.” Hector glanced at Patroclus, giving him a sympathetic look.

“I was sorry to hear about your guardsman. Or I should say, the Strategos. I did think he was more than just a bodyguard. The way he carried himself, that was a man who knew battle. And he was … an excellent opponent in Petteia.” 

Patroclus nodded, but didn’t answer. Hector looked flustered. 

“It seems I missed the funeral procession. It is … uncommon, in Troy, for the Crown Prince not to attend. I was worried it would cause insult.” 

“There is no insult, highness. There is no funeral procession.”

Hector blanched at this. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our Strategos is being denied a burial. Prince Achilles forbids it.”

There was a shocked silence. 

“This is -” Hector whispered. “Outrageous! We respect our military commanders in Troy, do you Phthians not do the same?”

“You will have to ask Prince Achilles,” Patroclus replied hollowly. 

“I will,” Hector fumed. Patroclus had never seen him so upset before.

“Even though he is Phthian, he has to know what an insult this is. It is hubris! Not to honor a man who has given his life to the gods of his fatherland!” 

Patroclus hadn’t expected this from Hector, but perhaps it was a good thing. Achilles might listen to Hector. Or he might be offended, and there would be no point. Either way, Patroclus had to do what he could. He had been given scraps, but even scraps could make a tapestry, if you had the right pattern in mind. His thoughts drifted to Antilochus, who had started his training in the army, and even now was sowing seeds of discord between the men and their prince.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your highness, Prince Hector wishes to see you,” announced one of Achilles’ guardsmen. 

Patroclus and Achilles had been facing each other. It was the third day Patroclus had returned, to ask Achilles for Automedon’s burial. Achilles hadn’t answered immediately this time. He’d given a little smile, and let Patroclus wait in silence. 

“Yes, let him in,” said Achilles, unbothered.

Hector marched a moment later, pausing when he saw Patroclus. Then he looked at Achilles and was visibly struggling to keep his anger contained. 

“Prince Achilles,” he said, voice low. “I am going to withdraw the arrangement of my brother as your consort.”

Achilles stiffened. “You cannot, Prince Hector. It is done.” He sounded irritated, but not uncertain. 

“I am within my rights to do so,” Hector continued. “It has come to my attention that the marriage has not been consummated. Knowing that, whatever relations you and my brother have are null and void.” 

Achilles had started to go white with a kind of rage Patroclus had never seen before. 

“You do not have the right to spread lies about my household. Your brother is a consort of Phthia and none of your concern.”

It was not a good enough argument, Hector did have the right to veto the marriage if it was unconsummated. And all he would need to prove that was Troilus’ testimony, if he truly wanted to return to Troy, which Patroclus knew he did. 

“You would break the alliance that we have worked for?” Achilles asked, teeth gritted. 

“No alliance is worth following a man who commits hubris to the gods. I will not see my brother married to a heretic, even if he is of royal blood.”

“Hubris?” Achilles was disbelieving now. And then realization dawned in his eyes, their gaze swinging to Patroclus. 

Patroclus weathered Achilles’ utterly betrayed look. In truth, he hadn’t expected Hector to go this far. Something told him Hector wouldn’t really risk the alliance, but for whatever reason, Hector was bold enough to chance that Achilles wouldn’t call him on his bluff. It couldn’t have been just Patroclus who had stoked Hector’s superstition. Someone else was involved. Someone who had encountered the Trojans before, knew about their stringent beliefs in paying respects to the dead. 

Captain Menesthius. He had been around the first time Phthia had an alliance with Troy. Hector was often roaming around the palace, he would have seen the army barracks and academy many times. There was a high chance he had met the captain, perhaps exchanged conversation. Patroclus couldn’t be sure, but he had a strong suspicion. 

Hector’s expression was clouded with disgust as he carried on about hubris, what the Trojans considered the worst crime, and how a failure to honor the dead was a failure as prince to his people. Achilles’ expression only darkened with every word. His eyes never left Patroclus, and Patroclus knew; if it somehow worked, if threats of revolt broke out among the men along with the breaking of the alliance, Achilles would make him pay for it dearly. 

“I leave in three days,” Hector concluded, getting ready to leave the chamber. “If the burial is not completed, I will take Troilus with me.”   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, the commanders reported that the men were demanding to see their prince, turmoil breaking out in the barracks. Achilles was forced to put them at ease, promising that the dead who returned from the north would be treated with all the honors they were entitled. Antilochus returned to his place as Patroclus’ guardsman, to Captain Menesthius’ befuddlement and disappointment. But he and Patroclus started to speak to one another again, a tentative reaching out towards the rapport they’d once shared. 

Hector made preparations to set sail for Troy, and the chambers across the hallway from Patroclus’ remained tranquil, Troilus probably hoping that he could go home.   
\------

Automedon was buried on the morning of Hector’s departure, at dawn.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m glad you feel better enough to resume your lessons, your highness. There is much you have missed. We must start work immediately, I’m afraid you’re out of practice in transcriptions.” Podalirius laid out a few sheets of Old Phthian in front of Patroclus. The words starting to jumble together, Patroclus picked up a pen. This was going to be a long headache of a day, it seemed. 

Podalirius looked pleased as he sorted through documents; Patroclus could not imagine a person who loved arranging scrolls in alphabetical order as much as Podalirius did. Podalirius had copied the words of Old Phthian texts for Patroclus to translate, in his extremely neat print. Patroclus’ hand was starting to ache when Machaon entered the room. He took one look at Patroclus, and Patroclus knew he was in for a mouthful.  
\----------------------------------------------------

“I distinctly remember telling you to stay away from the son of Diores!” Machaon admonished. 

“That you did,” Patroclus acknowledged. 

Machaon eyed Patroclus, and sighed long and slow. 

“If you were caught - if Prince Achilles found out about it -”

“He did.” Patroclus hadn’t been aiming for Machaon’s face to turn as white as it did now, and quickly explained.   
“He knows. And that’s why he -” His vision was blurry now, and there was a catch in his throat. He laid his head on the table forlornly. 

Machaon was looking very grave, but he got up and placed a hand on Patroclus’ arm.   
“If your father knew of this, he would have me executed.”

Patroclus nodded, the grief he’d managed to keep at bay for the past three days returning. 

Machaon looked as tired as Patroclus was. 

“Let us hope the young general has found peace.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Machaon hadn’t questioned Patroclus of the circumstances and extent of Achilles’ knowledge, but Patroclus knew that conversation was coming soon. Machaon was not one to leave things hanging. 

He walked in comfortable silence with Antilochus at his side, feeling relief, the encompassing sorrow within him reduced to a lingering ache. This was pain he could deal with. He couldn’t continue the way that he had anymore, lost in a static existence. If Automedon could be laid to rest, then he could find peace as well. 

They reached the chambers and Antilochus said goodnight.   
\-------------------------------------------------------

“Briseis,” Patroclus called. “I’m back.”

They’d both found solace at the news of the burial. Patroclus had never been sure if Briseis knew about him and Automedon. He’d snuck out at night, when she’d been asleep, but there was always the likelihood she’d heard and never said anything. Briseis was more perceptive than she was given credit for.  
She didn’t come as soon as he called her. It was unlike Briseis, she was always at the door as soon as he returned, asking if he’d eaten, why he was back so late, did he need a bath - 

“Briseis?” Patroclus frowned, going into the side room where Briseis slept. It was empty. He ventured further, out of the chambers and to the connected rooms behind where the other servants slept, servants he didn’t usually encounter. 

A few of them relaxed on their beds, and started when they saw him.

“Your highness!” exclaimed one serving girl, and immediately bowed. 

Patroclus hesitated, looking from her to the other servants.

“I’m … sorry to intrude. I was just looking for Briseis. She’s usually in my chambers.” It was an obvious statement, Briseis was in charge of all these other servants, they would know where she usually was. The serving girl looked confused. 

“Your highness, Briseis is no longer here.”

Patroclus stalled, unable to form a response. He knew what had happened.   
Dejected, he returned to his chambers. Looking around them, he realized how empty they were, the space too wide, too quiet. Just as hollow as he felt inside. 

He sank onto the floor. She would be long gone by now. Back to Opus, if Achilles had been kind. 

“Briseis is the one Lykaia and Terpe like to talk to,” he remembered Achilles saying. He had been stupid, drawing Achilles’ attention to her. His eyes were dry, he had run out of tears. 

“Do you, um … want company?” Patroclus didn’t even look up at the sound of Troilus’ voice. 

He just patted the floor beside him and waited until Troilus’ weight fell beside him. They sat there for a long time.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter.

Patroclus was too hot; every time he managed to fall asleep, he would wake up again, feeling stuffy. Philomenes had given him something for this, which he took before bed every night, but apparently it wasn’t strong enough. The physician had acknowledged that it was common for someone so close to term as Patroclus was. 

He pushed the covers away from himself, letting in the cold nighttime air. Something shifted when he moved the blankets, making him pause. Confused, he twisted his body, squinting into the darkness. He could make out a dark shape, a weight on the mattress next to him. Someone was in his bed. 

Feeling a jolt up his spine, Patroclus jumped back and started to yell - for someone, anyone, even though the guards had retired from their late-night shift. It would only be the night watch patrolling the palace halls now, and they could be avoided if the intruder was shrewd enough. 

A hand was clamped over his mouth, a face drawn close to his ear. 

“Quiet!” the dark shape whispered. “Stop, I’m not going to rape you!”

Panicked, Patroclus kept writhing, but was only pinned down with the other person’s body.

“It’s me, Eudoros!” Patroclus froze. He stopped struggling, though prepared to leap out of the bed and run to the door. The person was fumbling around the bed now, and the lamp next to it ignited, casting a faint glow all around. 

It was Eudoros. 

Patroclus could not believe his eyes. “What are you doing in my bed?!” he hissed. 

Eudoros threw him a placating look, though he huffed in irritation.

“I had to speak to you,” he whispered. 

“So you sneak into my bed, in the middle of the night?” Patroclus was still appalled. 

Eudoros shook his head frustratedly. “It’s the only way I could get to you. I know this palace like the back of my hand. There was no way I could approach you otherwise, not with -” he winced.   
“How I am … currently perceived at court.” He grumbled these last few words under his breath.   
Eudoros’ public image had been tarnished ever since his fall from Peleus’ favor. The king had made it no secret how furious he was at Eudoros’ actions, and rumors had spread around the entire court. Patroclus imagined he could not go anywhere now without being treated like a pariah. 

Patroclus shifted so they laid facing each other now. “Fine. What is it you wish to speak to me about?” 

There was a pause, as Eudoros seemed to weigh his words.   
“My father has been brought home. I wanted to thank you for it.” His face was grim as he said this; he wasn’t prideful about showing his gratitude, but Patroclus could sense it was a sensitive topic nonetheless. 

“Me? What do I have to do with any of this?” Eudoros had mentioned his father’s body was being retrieved by the second contingent, but - oh. 

“What do you have to do with this?” Eudoros turned the question on him, seeing that Patroclus had realized the answer. 

They faced each other in silence. 

The troops led by Automedon had been tasked with retrieving the dead from the northern front. One of them being Eudoros’ father, Echekles. It had been delayed when Automedon and the others were captured. There would have been nobody else to find the bodies. But when Patroclus requested the search parties and hostage negotiations … 

“I’m glad, then,” said Patroclus softly, giving Eudoros a moment to collect himself, resume his usual composure. Eudoros nodded solemnly. He looked up at Patroclus again, after a moment, hesitating. 

“Patroclus. There is …” he clamped his mouth shut. Eudoros gave a loud sigh, as though admonishing himself, and rolled over to face the ceiling. 

“I just … I want you to remember this. That I know what you’ve done for me. Even after … whatever else that happens.” His voice was restrained, and it was the first time he didn’t observe Patroclus, didn’t try to read him. Instead, he seemed determined to look away. 

Patroclus wasn’t about to press Eudoros further. They were … not exactly friends, but they did have some sort of understanding. He wasn’t about to break it by causing offense, or forcing Eudoros to give up any pride he held on to. 

There was a silence between them again, then Eudoros swivelled his head to look at Patroclus again. The spark in his eyes was back, and he looked Patroclus up and down. 

“Do you want to fuck?” he asked, abruptly. 

Patroclus was struck dumb. 

“... What did you say?” In a small voice. 

Eudoros smirked, relaxing against the mattress, his usual self in place. 

“Don’t look so surprised. We’re both here, and I’m going to have to stay until the night watch retires at dawn.” He gestured at Patroclus.   
“And you are rather attractive even when you’re the size of a planet.”

Patroclus was about to make a very loud objection, but his lips would not move. 

“I may not be Achilles, but I could make it good for you.” Eudoros’ grin waned slightly. “I must say, I haven’t had many opportunities for lovemaking lately.”  
He turned to Patroclus, studying his expression.  
“It wouldn’t have to mean anything.”

Patroclus found himself hesitating. It had been a while since … since he’d been touched in that way. He did yearn for it sometimes, the feeling of another person’s warmth, the intimacy of it … But Eudoros wasn’t who he wanted, and he doubted it was any different for Eudoros, either. 

“No, Eudoros,” he said, keeping his tone gentle.

Eudoros looked at him for a bit, seeming like he’d been expecting it. He shrugged, and his smile never lost its mischief. 

“Suit yourself. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up if you change your mind.” Gathering the sheets around himself, he closed his eyes. 

Patroclus lay in silence for a while, partly wishing Eudoros had wanted to continue talking. Then he shook his head, curled up and went to sleep. 

In the morning, he woke up to find Eudoros gone.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus was summoned for an audience with the king. He fought the feeling of anxiousness that rose in him when Antilochus brought the news, it had been a while since he’d seen Peleus. There was no telling what the king wanted. 

Eucharia, the new attendant who had replaced Briseis, dressed him in his official robes without a word. She kept her head down and didn’t speak to him unless in reply. He missed Briseis dearly, every day there was a pang in his chest whenever he got out of bed and remembered she wasn’t there. 

Troilus met him outside his chambers, the younger man wringing his hands nervously. “You’re leaving?” he asked. They had formed some sort of bond in the past couple of months; Troilus was well settled in the palace by now, his belongings from Troy had been sent over. But he never left his rooms, except to visit Patroclus’. They had fallen into a habit of breaking fast together. Troilus was never asked to attend court, and there were whispers, poisonous ones, no doubt sowed by Peleus’ advisors. 

“The king has summoned me for an audience. I’ll tell you when I get back,” Patroclus replied, hearing the footsteps of Antilochus and Eurypylus falling in place behind him.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The audience hall was more crowded than Patroclus had anticipated, it seemed even the king’s advisors had been asked to attend. He recognized Phoinix, whom Machaon liked. Peleus was seated on the throne, his face grey, looking older than Patroclus had ever seen him. Achilles stood next to his father, and he caught Patroclus’ eyes, his own flashing darkly. 

“Good, Patroclus, you’re here.” Peleus waved his hand at the rest of the court, silencing the mutterings of his advisors.   
“I have received grave news from our sources in Opus.” 

Patroclus’ pulse began to quicken at the mention of his fatherland. Machaon had not mentioned anything. It was significant indeed if even the ambassador had not received the information before it reached the king. 

“King Menoetius is dead.” Peleus looked around the hall, satisfied by the hushed silence.   
“Opus has crowned a new ruler in his place. His son Myrtus has taken the throne.” 

The hall broke out as the men began to whisper amongst each other.   
Patroclus had felt a chill at Peleus’ words. He had feared this would happen one day, but so soon? Myrtus. The pit of his stomach felt like a rock. He placed his hand on his belly, soothing the movements of his child. He would never be able to return to Opus now. Achilles was watching him, and he returned the gaze. Peleus apparently wasn’t finished.

“There has been a change to our situation. King Myrtus does not share the sentiments of his father. He appears to have … other ambitions.” Peleus’ voice had weakened, but nobody seemed to notice. Patroclus thought he did not look well at all.   
“He has been in contact with our vassal in the north, Arisbe.” The mutterings of the men grew louder, angrier.  
“There has been an unexpected source of support for Myrtus. A week ago, he was joined in marriage to our very own Eudoros Echeklides.”   
There was an uproar, some men getting to their feet, objecting to this uninvited information. 

Patroclus’ heart sank, Eudoros’ words wandering into his thoughts. Whatever else that happens … Eudoros had been speaking of matters far more serious than his falling from grace. Patroclus felt the heat of betrayal. Eudoros had married Myrtus. His eyes found Achilles’ again, the other man did not look pleased.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peleus had sent Achilles with a contingent to Arisbe, to confront them about their dealings with Opus, and hopefully discourage the activity. Patroclus didn’t think it would work. Myrtus had succeeded, after all. His calculating ways had won him the throne, and he would no doubt have convinced the Arisbeans to side with him. 

“I didn’t know,” said Machaon, sounding desolated. He was seated, his head bent, looking smaller than Patroclus had ever seen him. Podalirius was distraught at his side, but kept silent. 

“When the messenger arrived, it was too late. Peleus’ men had already intercepted the information. But … there was nothing I could do in any case. The king was already dead.”

“How did he do it?” Patroclus wondered. “Myrtus.”

Machaon shook his head. “He was very popular in court, your highness. Very popular among the troops, too. He must have had a tremendous amount of support. But your father … I cannot imagine how he … there was no news at all, of illness, injury. As far as I knew, he was in good health.” 

Patroclus felt sick. Could it be possible -? He didn’t dare voice the thought. Machaon seemed to share these sentiments. 

“Either way, it is done, highness. He is king. We will have to … tread carefully. He might not honor the alliance the same way your father did.”

Patroclus knew he would not. If Myrtus had his way, he would have Patroclus dragged home by his hair, and sent into exile, or worse. Myrtus had never liked Machaon and Podalirius, either. Patroclus was not the only one whose position had become extremely precarious. 

The discomfort he had been feeling all day expanded. He didn’t know if Peleus, or Achilles, would insist on his protection. Technically-speaking, he belonged to the royal house of Phthia, but if Myrtus deliberately overturned the alliance …   
There was no telling what might happen. He could feel it, that deep pain in his gut, striking his insides like a shock of lightning. It had started to happen this morning, at Peleus’ announcement, and … oh gods. 

“Machaon,” Patroclus gritted his teeth. 

Machaon was quick to notice his look of pain, and leapt up from his chair. 

“Patroclus, what is it? Gods, Podalirius! Get Philomenes now!” 

As Podalirius hurried away, Machaon strode over to Patroclus, who had doubled over in agony.   
“How long has this been happening?” he demanded. 

“Since … this morning,” Patroclus breathed out, both hands clutching at his stomach. 

“Patroclus,” Machaon chided, but he sounded more panicked than anything. He placed a hand on Patroclus’ back. “Try to breathe, deeply. You will have to get up when Philomenes is here. Or we’ll have the guard carry you to your chambers, whichever. It will be alright. It will be alright.” 

Machaon kept repeating this, more to himself than Patroclus. Patroclus did as he was told, taking steady breaths, his face crumpled at the pain that came and went. Philomenes arrived with Antilochus and Eurypylus in tow; they carried a stretcher which they helped Patroclus into. He was brought back to his chambers swiftly.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hours were long, and the babe had still not come. It was near midnight now, and Patroclus lay back in his bed, covered in sweat. He wanted Briseis. He wanted … Automedon. He wanted him so badly.

Instead, Eucharia and the other attendants hovered, awaiting Philomenes’ orders. Machaon would enter the room every few minutes to check in, even though he was supposedly not allowed to witness the royal consort in labor. 

“Make them go away,” Patroclus cried, indicating Eucharia and the servants. 

He wanted desperately to be alone, to have some semblance of privacy, dignity, no matter what the rules said about royal births. Philomenes eyed the servants and nodded at them, they withdrew. It was just Patroclus and Philomenes in the room now, and if he closed his eyes he could let the quietness soothe him.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the hours of early morning when Macarius was born. 

Patroclus had given up the last recesses of his strength, could barely remember the moments when he had lost his senses, when his son had entered the world. He had taken a slight fever, but Philomenes assured him it was mild, and would subside with rest. 

“Rest easy now, highness,” the physician advised, tucking the babe in Patroclus’ arms. “Your son is here. You must both rest.” 

Patroclus’ head was already lolling onto his pillow, but his eyes could not leave the little infant in his arms. His son had been cleaned, the cord at his belly cut, and now lay silent, unlike how he had made his appearance - bawling, his cries filling the room, enough to make Machaon burst in. 

The ambassador now stood in the corner, looking awed and joyful, more so than Patroclus had ever seen him. 

“He looks like a little old man,” Patroclus observed, frowning down at his son. He heard Machaon chuckle. 

“He will grow, Patroclus. He is healthy. Very healthy.” Machaon’s voice was soft as he studied the infant. 

There was a long silence, and Patroclus began to drift into slumber, thinking Machaon had gone away. He started awake when Machaon’s footsteps approached. 

“Whose is he?” Machaon asked, gently. 

Patroclus looked down at the child, feeling a tightening in his chest. He shook it free, gaze roaming over the wrinkled newborn skin, the crumpled face, tiny wisps of hair, the eyes … he had not seen his son’s eyes. 

“He is mine,” Patroclus said, and looked up at Machaon. 

Machaon looked at the infant again, and crossed his arms.   
“You must name him,” he finally said. 

“I thought you said - in Phthia, it is the sire who chooses -” 

“You must name him, your highness,” Machaon interrupted. “Just as your mother named you.” It was so unlike Machaon to break protocol. 

Patroclus looked at his son again. “I hope you have a good life, little Macarius,” he said.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus heard that Achilles’ arrival had been ill-received by the Arisbeans. They were there for days, and no matter what bargains or threats Achilles delivered, the Arisbeans were chest-deep in Myrtus’ plans. 

Arisbe was the wealthiest kingdom in the north. It had taken much to conquer it. When it was done, Lindos and Cameira followed easily. It would cost the Phthians too much, if they lost Arisbe. Patroclus hadn’t given much thought to it, so occupied he was with Macarius. He didn’t let Eucharia and the others tend to his child. Macarius was in his arms day and night, or in his cradle. 

Briseis had started weaving the basket for newborns traditional to Opian children, as soon as she’d suspected Patroclus’ pregnancy. It was completed now, and he would have his son’s first sleeping place be one made with love. 

Patroclus was oddly content, at peace, in a way. He’d been holding off his thoughts on Macarius’ birth, not allowing himself to think of the future. He didn’t know if it was fear that the birth would go wrong, or some deeper perturbation … but it was gone now. His days were filled with tending to the babe, Antilochus peeking in every now and then, Troilus coming to visit to see the child. 

It was during one of these visits that Achilles made his entrance.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------

Machaon sent word that Achilles had returned, and was eager to see his son. And indeed, the look on his face when he walked in … he looked very pleased, if not elated. He didn’t even notice Troilus sitting on the edge of the bed, peering at Macarius. 

Troilus immediately withdrew out of sight when Achilles approached. Patroclus looked up, managing a smile. Achilles hovered for a moment, then sat where Troilus had been. He met Patroclus’ eyes, and Patroclus handed Macarius over wordlessly. 

“He is in good health,” Achilles observed. He suddenly beamed, the light touching his eyes.   
“A son.” 

“Were you worried it was a girl?” Patroclus asked, not really caring about the answer. 

“No. If we had a daughter, I’d just have to put another child in you,” Achilles shrugged. Patroclus looked away. 

“His name is Macarius,” he finally supplied, and Achilles looked surprised, but didn’t comment. 

“Good. The birth of a prince will bring comfort to our people. I’m sure you’ve heard. Things are not looking good with the north at the moment.” Achilles didn’t sound worried, although his expression had grown more serious. He bent and gave Macarius a kiss on his forehead. 

“That’s not all I’ve heard,” Patroclus replied, moving to take Macarius back.   
“Have you been to see your father?”

Achilles grimaced. “I thought to see my son first. My father will want to see him too.”

Peleus had taken ill, and was confined to his chambers. Patroclus didn’t know the details, but Machaon had come to report everything he knew. The king was not that old, but he had been aggrieved by many troubles lately. It had not fared well for his health. 

Macarius made an unhappy sound as he was jostled, and started to cry. Patroclus had started to draw back his robe, thinking the infant was hungry, when Achilles clapped his hands and a woman emerged from the hallway. 

“Polymele will see to our boy,” he explained, beckoning her over. She was a new mother, it appeared. She approached them and held out her arms for Macarius, head bowed. Patroclus frowned at her, tightening his hold around Macarius. 

“Give him over,” ordered Achilles. He looked back and forth between Patroclus and Polymele, the wet nurse. 

“Patroclus,” he said. His tone was uncertain, like he didn’t know why Patroclus would not hand over the child.

“I will feed him myself,” Patroclus expressed. He gave Polymele a stern look, wanting her to back away.

“Don’t be absurd, Patroclus. Macarius is a prince of Phthia, he will need a wet nurse. You cannot tend to him yourself. It is not proper.” 

Patroclus stared at Achilles, willing him to break their gaze. Achilles did not. 

“Give him over,” Achilles said again, starting to sound upset. 

“No.” 

Achilles rose then, took Macarius from Patroclus, and placed him in Polymele’s arms. He glared down at Patroclus. 

“Polymele will be in charge of feeding the babe from now on. I will see to it that he has nursemaids of his own.” 

He walked away, leaving Patroclus staring after him, staring after Polymele, who retreated into a side room; staring at Macarius’ little face, the shiny dark eyes blinking back at him, remnants of the one link he had to the man he loved. A small twinge of satisfaction had filled his chest, warding off the anger that threatened to escape.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dubious consent.

With Peleus ill and bedridden, Achilles had been appointed Regent in his place. This was done in a small ceremony with Peleus’ advisors. The recent changes to Opus’ rulership brought about the need for a representative on Phthia’s side as well, and Peleus simply wasn’t up for it. 

“They say it is a lung disease,” Achilles sighed, looking more weary than he’d ever been. He was referring to the royal physicians; as king, Peleus would have more than just Philomenes working on treating his illness. 

Patroclus was looking out the window, rocking Macarius back and forth. The babe was having trouble falling asleep. Patroclus didn’t mind. He liked the feeling of Macarius in his arms, his newborn scent, and he would gladly have held him all day. Unfortunately, Achilles had assigned two nursemaids along with Polymele, young women who wanted to take Macarius; feed him, change him, do everything Patroclus was supposed to do. It irritated Patroclus to no end. 

“Will he be better in time for the assembly with Myrtus?” Patroclus grimaced at the thought of seeing his brother again. With Eudoros. 

They had arranged a meeting with the new king at the border where their two lands met; it was significant, something like this hadn’t happened since the assembly where King Menoetius had given Patroclus to Peleus’ house. Myrtus had expressed wishes to re-establish the alliance with Phthia - supposedly a good thing, but Patroclus was still worried. One never knew with Myrtus. 

Achilles crossed his arms and didn’t reply. He was deep in thought, Patroclus had never seen him so serious about anything. 

“I wonder what your brother is scheming,” Achilles muttered. He looked at Patroclus and sneered, but the expression wasn’t directed at Patroclus.  
“He thinks he can make demands of Phthia when not even two years ago he was nothing but a bastard. Nothing’s changed. Now he’s just a bastard wearing a crown.” 

Patroclus glanced at Macarius, feeling the irony.  
Outside in the streets, the Phthians were celebrating the new prince’s first full moon. It was considered good luck if a child could survive till then. Achilles had been right when he said the birth of a prince would bring the people comfort. Macarius seemed to be all people talked about at the moment, nobles and commoners alike. 

Patroclus hadn’t noticed Achilles walking up behind him. Achilles took Macarius from Patroclus, smiling up at the infant and kissing his forehead and cheeks. His eyes spun towards Patroclus as he did so. 

Patroclus forced himself to look back, even as Achilles grinned, bouncing Macarius gently on his shoulder. It had been a sort of match between them, for the past few weeks. Patroclus was almost entirely certain Achilles suspected Macarius was not his son; and if he did, he took great pleasure in seeing Patroclus’ discomfort. Still, he did seem to genuinely adore the babe. Patroclus wasn’t sure if Achilles’ almost daily visits were simply to make him squirm. Either way, Macarius’ birth had benefited him greatly, he’d had a huge amount of support to become regent and was ever more popular amongst the people now that he had an heir.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had arrived at the border, Peleus indeed being in too poor health to make the trip. Phthian tents were set up, their flags waving, facing the Opian ones on the other side. Patroclus hadn’t wanted to leave Macarius with the nursemaids at the palace, but Achilles had insisted he attend. While Achilles undoubtedly looked forward to seeing another disastrous reunion between the brothers, he had also begun to seek Patroclus’ opinion on Myrtus. The night before, they had sat up till the small hours, Achilles listening as Patroclus recounted everything he knew about his brother, every detail. 

Patroclus became less and less certain how helpful it would be, as soon as he saw Myrtus emerge from his tent. His brother was dressed in the kind of rich robes their father had worn, a crown on his head. The attire looked wrong on him. Achilles seemed to think the same thing, as he leaned towards Patroclus and murmured unkindly, “He looks like a child playing dress-up.” 

Patroclus was too tense to reply, although he could feel Achilles’ eyes on him, somewhere between amused and derisive. It was a strange feeling. Achilles seemed to want a reaction from Patroclus, for him to join him in insulting Myrtus, or perhaps simply to laugh and share his humor. Patroclus didn’t know which, but he had that feeling again. A feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. A simple desire for Achilles to like him. 

“Looks like the child has brought his toy,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself, as Eudoros was a little behind Myrtus. Achilles raised his eyebrows, unable to stop his startled laugh, and Patroclus gave himself a mental battering. No matter what Eudoros had done, Patroclus had never intended to stoop so low. Troubled, he added, “I didn’t mean it.”

Achilles’ smile was cool and pleased. “I know that, Patroclus.” He placed a hand on the small of Patroclus’ back, and they approached Myrtus together.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I hadn’t anticipated we would meet again so soon, Prince Achilles.” Myrtus looked entirely too smug that he was addressing Achilles as a king. He completely ignored Patroclus, who sat at Achilles’ side; and Achilles in turn completely ignored Eudoros. It was … hard to believe, seeing Myrtus and Eudoros together, side by side. Patroclus thought they were a bad match. Eudoros clearly liked someone whose strings he could pull, but Myrtus was not a man who could be controlled. 

“I trust Opus wishes to assure us there is no threat to our alliance,” Achilles replied coolly.  
“After all, both our kingdoms have benefited greatly from this. It would be a sure sign of foolishness to revoke everything we’ve worked towards.”

Myrtus’ smile turned ugly.  
“Of course there is no threat. Our great friendship has been reinforced by my consort, whose noble blood honors both Phthia and Opus alike.” He placed a hand on Eudoros’ arm. There was a twinkle in Eudoros’ eye, but he did not acknowledge Myrtus. 

Achilles sneered at the slight.  
“Your consort is in disgrace. The blood he has honors nothing.” 

There was a tense silence, their advisors looking nervously at both leaders. They were walking a fine line here.

Finally, Myrtus conceded.  
“Opus has no wish to rescind associations with Phthia. Unfortunately, my lord father is dead. We must look towards new horizons now, Prince Achilles. Having said that, we have but one request Phthia may honor, that our friendship remains eternal.” 

Achilles leaned forward. “A request?” Knowing Myrtus, it was more of a demand. 

“Think of it as a proposition, Prince Achilles. Opus has lent its troops to Phthia throughout the duration of the northern campaign. Yet, it seems my lord father’s ambitions did not run high enough.”

At Achilles’ raised eyebrow, Myrtus continued. 

“Your enemies the Trachians have been consorting with Arisbe. The Arisbeans know trade secrets, military plans that would otherwise be well-hidden in Trachis. They were once the same tribe, you know. We took it upon ourselves to inherit this knowledge, through our own correspondence with your vassal.” 

Achilles’ face was completely blank, and Patroclus saw his pupils had dilated to the point where his eyes were black and angry. Myrtus was essentially confessing that Opus had gone behind Phthia’s back to make dealings with Arisbe, the wealthiest kingdom in the north that Phthia had conquered. And there was nothing they could do about it. 

“You mentioned a request,” Achilles pressed, voice low and flat.

“I understand you were counting on an alliance with Troy to defeat the Trachians,” Myrtus replied, as pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream. “Yet the Trojans were once seen as traitors to Phthia. Is it so easily forgiven?”

Achilles’ eyes narrowed. “It has been decades. Our alliance with Troy is strong, and we are confident we will have the north with their aid.”

“Yet Troy still controls Pherae, and much of southern trade. Trade that is rightfully Phthia’s.” 

Patroclus frowned, having an inkling on what Myrtus was getting at.  
“You’re asking us to betray the Trojans,” Patroclus said, and Achilles’ head snapped towards him. 

Myrtus looked irritated at the interruption. He didn’t cast so much as a glance at Patroclus, opening his mouth to address Achilles instead. 

“Phthia has only to grant Arisbe its independence. That is our request. Arisbe will bring the Trachians to our cause, and together we will defeat Troy, taking the south as well. Pherae will be reclaimed, in revenge for the injustice all those years ago. We will rule the world, Prince Achilles. Opus and Phthia, side by side.” 

Achilles was silent, considering this. 

He was silent all the way back to the palace, while Patroclus suppressed his fears that Myrtus’ words had gotten under Achilles’ skin.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Troilus had not shown up to break the fast. Patroclus paced the room, wondering if the younger man had somehow slept in. He’d been around Troilus long enough to learn that he had been a favorite of his mother’s, growing up under her care in the Trojan court. As a result, Troilus did not act with as much caution as he ought to. He spoke too freely, and was clearly unfamiliar with Phthian customs. He didn’t have an ambassador like Machaon, to advise him on these matters. 

Patroclus noticed Eucharia peeking out the door across the hallway, and got up to look. Achilles’ guards were escorting Troilus back to his chambers, and he looked - terrible. Bedraggled, dark circles under his eyes. When the guards left, Patroclus went to Troilus’ chambers to see what the matter was.

“Troilus?” he called, squinting in the darkness. The curtains had not been drawn, and there was only a small lamp next to Troilus’ bed. Troilus lay on the bed, unmoving. Patroclus reluctantly approached.

“What’s happened?” he asked, taking a look at the young prince.

Troilus groaned and lifted his head. Patroclus took a seat on the edge, and waited for him to speak.

“Why won’t he stop,” Troilus whispered, eventually.  
“I can’t …” his face crumpled. He looked forlorn and helpless, and Patroclus didn’t know how to help him.

“Achilles?” he asked, though he didn’t really have to. It was a silent knowledge between them, that Achilles still pursued Troilus relentlessly, and the latter did not reciprocate. 

Troilus sat up. “He isn’t always unpleasant,” he admitted. “But … he wants me. And I don’t …” He looked at Patroclus then, seeming embarrassed.  
“I’m sorry. He must have done the same to you.”

Patroclus shrugged. “I let him,” he replied. “It was all I knew to do. It was my duty.”

Troilus looked pained then. Patroclus sighed.  
“It wasn’t always bad. In fact … it wasn’t bad at all. It’s just that he didn’t see me as anything else.”

Troilus leaned his head against Patroclus. “Did you … like it?”

“Sometimes,” Patroclus admitted. He looked at the ground. “Sometimes he could be sweet to me. Like he … cared about me.”

“He does care about you,” said Troilus. “He always talks to you like … like he really wants to know what you think.” 

“Perhaps. But it wasn’t always like that. And he does like to play games. It’s tiring.” 

They had never discussed Achilles like this before. Troilus usually preferred to avoid the topic, and Patroclus shared his sentiments. 

“Does he force you?” Patroclus asked suddenly, the thought coming to his mind. He didn’t think Achilles would, but then - Achilles had never been gentle, not when they’d been together, not even in the early days of Patroclus’ pregnancy. He was not a restrained lover. And part of why he’d never had to force Patroclus was because Patroclus would never have denied him.  
Troilus was different. He’d never grown up thinking his body could belong to someone else, so he didn’t act like it did. 

“No,” Troilus replied. “But … he gets so angry. He calls me … he said he would have better luck making love to a corpse.” 

Patroclus was appalled. “That … that can’t be true.”

Troilus grimaced. “I’ve tried,” he offered. “But I can’t … make myself do it.”

“What do you mean?” Patroclus asked. 

“It’s nothing like making love to a girl. He’s just so … he isn’t like anyone I’ve been with before,” Troilus explained. 

Patroclus was still for a moment. “Are you … do you not like men?” 

Troilus looked guilty. “There was someone, back home. She was the daughter of one of my father’s advisors. I always thought I’d marry her. I didn’t think this would happen.” 

Patroclus felt a little sick, and an immense sympathy for Troilus. It had never even occurred to him that one could choose. When he’d come of age and it was determined that he carried the mark of childbearing, he’d always known he would be given to someone, some lord or prince. Troilus had never had to worry about that.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Father is getting worse,” Achilles remarked as he inspected Macarius’ little fingers and toes. 

“Is there nothing to help him? What does Philomenes say?” Patroclus pressed. 

“ … They’ve given him everything. Medicines from as far as Scyros. They’ve consulted with physicians from neighboring kingdoms. It isn’t doing any good.”

Patroclus said nothing. He looked at Macarius, whom Peleus had wanted to see. The king had mentioned that he missed having a child in the halls. Now he might not even be able to see Macarius learn to walk. He had been very ill, the last few times Achilles had taken Macarius to visit.  
“I don’t want Macarius to catch anything,” Achilles had said, and didn’t bring him again. 

“I’ve been thinking about what your brother said.”

Patroclus expected this. “You can’t make dealings with Myrtus,” he murmured. 

Achilles was not pleased by this reply. “You think I want to? The man is a snake. And he has Eudoros at his side whispering in his ear, knowing all our secrets. We are at an extreme disadvantage. But … I think they’re not off the mark.”

“You can’t think this!” Patroclus exclaimed, in disbelief. “We have the Trojans on our side. We’ve been steadily keeping Trachis at bay. If we betray them …” He felt a sinking in his gut, thinking of Hector, his easy friendship. 

“I don’t know how long we can continue to trust the Trojans. If we refuse your brother and he withdraws his troops, the Trojans will have a clear path to take Trachis for themselves.” Achilles wasn’t wrong. Patroclus remembered Hector’s words to Troilus, how they meant to take the north. If they could have Trachis, they would take Arisbe. The others would follow. 

Patroclus sighed. “But the alternative …”

“I know,” said Achilles. He returned Macarius to his cradle. Turning back to Patroclus, he said, “You did well at the assembly. Myrtus must have been fuming.” 

Patroclus shrugged. “He’s always like that.”

Achilles’ mood had lightened slightly. “You’re not afraid of him anymore.” 

“I … no, I don’t think so. I’ll always be wary of him, but … it’s not the same as it used to be.” He didn’t know what made him admit this to Achilles, but the past few days… there was an understanding they shared, about the danger of Peleus’ condition, the need to protect Phthia. It made Achilles almost easy to be around.  
Achilles had gone closer to Patroclus, watching him thoughtfully. He placed both hands on Patroclus’ waist and just looked at him. 

“Get on the table,” he said, after a moment. Patroclus frowned in response, but complied. 

“What -”

Achilles was in front of him then, grasping him and drawing him close. 

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I needed you at my side. Of course it helps that Myrtus hates you - it amuses me to no end, I assure you. But you saw through him anyway.” 

“I don’t always,” Patroclus replied, shaking off his confusion at Achilles’ sudden advances. 

“It doesn’t matter. Myrtus thinks us fools, but he doesn’t know us at all.” Achilles’ hand was between Patroclus’ legs now, parting them and sliding up his tunic. 

Patroclus felt two fingers slip inside him, raw, and couldn’t suppress his startled gasp. Achilles started to laugh, the sound more aroused than humorous. 

“Wait,” said Patroclus, hesitating. 

“What?” Achilles looked at him sharply, one hand still grasping his thigh, like iron. 

Patroclus shook his head. Perhaps he could serve as a distraction. If Achilles wanted him, he wouldn’t go to Troilus. And the latter would be free, at least for a little while. Patroclus could give him that. 

It was too soon after the birth, Patroclus could tell, when Achilles entered him and he could only clamp a hand over his mouth, quieting the intakes of breath that betrayed his pain.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your highness! Your highness!” It was Machaon, barging past Antilochus and Eurypylus to enter Patroclus’ chambers. 

“What is it?” Patroclus asked, in the middle of luncheon.

“Urgent news,” Machaon announced, out of breath. He paused to compose himself, and suddenly knelt.

Patroclus was taken aback. “Machaon … ?”

“Peleus died this morning. Your highness, you are now Royal Consort to the King of Phthia.” 

Patroclus stilled, abandoning his food. “Take me to him,” he muttered, not even noticing Antilochus’ and Eurypylus’ shocked expressions.  
\----

Achilles was pacing back and forth, grim and brooding as Phoinix rattled off the arrangements for the funeral, the coronation, a tide of information packed neatly on his advisor’s scroll. Patroclus arrived with Machaon, Antilochus and Eurypylus in tow. Each halted in front of Achilles, remembered themselves, and knelt before him. 

Achilles ignored them, his gaze on Patroclus, troubled and unhappy. 

“Phoinix, you may go,” he murmured. Phoinix started to object, but Achilles waved him away. “I will deal with this later,” he insisted. 

He and Patroclus were alone in the room, and Patroclus wanted to say “What now?” but could not. Too much was happening too soon. They had thought to have at least a few more months with Peleus, who would make a decision on what to do about Opus and the north. Achilles had been right about not being able to trust in their status with Troy, but it wasn’t just about Trachis. Word had reached King Priam about Troilus’ mistreatment in the palace, resulting in tension between the two courts. Hector had once mentioned Troy was on rocky ground with Phthia; now it seemed, it was the other way around. 

Achilles would be taking his place on the throne with not one, but two unstable alliances; along with a campaign in the north that his father had started, and he was expected to finish. If Troy withdrew their troops, they would lose the war with Trachis. If Phthia did not acquiesce with Myrtus’ request, the alliance with Opus would be broken, leaving Phthia at Troy’s mercy. There was no way out. 

“What are we to do?” Patroclus asked softly. 

Achilles bowed his head. “Look at the legacy he’s left me,” he growled.  
“There are nothing but pieces for me to pick up!”

They stood in silence for a while.

“Come,” said Patroclus. “We should pay our last respects to your father before they take the body away.”  
He had, in fact, not seen Peleus for what felt like weeks. Achilles was about to protest, but eventually nodded his head and led Patroclus to the king’s private sanctuary, where his body had been washed and laid out to rest before the funeral.  
\---------------------------------------------

They had been sitting, and Achilles seemed to stare at nothing, not even the still form of his father’s body under its shroud. They had made their prayers and anointed the shroud with the ritual oils left behind by the priests. 

Patroclus had no words for this moment. He thought Achilles looked sad, but it was hard to tell. There had definitely been affection between father and son, it was nothing like the relationship Patroclus had had with his own father. Peleus had loved and cared for Achilles, and Achilles … he hadn’t expected to rule just yet. It was a heavy burden. 

“This is what our son has to look forward to,” Achilles mused, suddenly.

Patroclus froze, thoughts flashing in his mind of Automedon’s words, and Hector’s. 

“... There is still hope.”

Achilles was silent. Then, he turned his head to look at Patroclus, and the expression on his face lacked the usual mixture of watchfulness and mirth he had when they were with each other.

“Could you have loved me?” he asked.

If Patroclus had expected something, it wasn’t this.  
Could he have? If he’d never met Automedon? If … Achilles had seen him as an equal from the start? Perhaps there was some love lost between them, a missed opportunity. Patroclus wasn’t who he had been. Achilles didn’t make him nervous anymore, his mind games had lost their effect. He couldn’t place exactly when it had changed, when Macarius was born, maybe. He had his son to think of now, and could match whatever Achilles threw at him, if it kept Macarius safe. Even so, Patroclus could not answer. There were times Achilles seemed untouchable to him, but today … he was reminded Achilles was only human. 

When Patroclus didn’t answer, Achilles turned away, but took his hand. “I suppose I’ve made it impossible,” he admitted. “Besides, I never stood a chance, did I? Not with the way you looked at him.” Despite his words, some of the liveliness had gone back into his gaze, it was open and clear.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a summons that Patroclus had not expected. 

He hadn’t really thought to speak to Eudoros again, not even during confrontations with Myrtus. The other man was alone in his tent at the border, the Opians had not left, awaiting Achilles’ answer. 

“You know I’m not going to trust a word you say,” Patroclus warned, taking his seat opposite the man.

Eudoros’ lips quirked a little, but he was far from his usual laidback self.  
“I almost told you,” he replied. Then laughed.  
“I forgot myself for a moment.”

Patroclus didn’t respond, waiting for Eudoros to continue.

“When Achilles agrees to Myrtus’ request,” Eudoros started.  
“We will go to Arisbe and recruit the Trachians.” It wasn’t new information, but Eudoros wasn’t done.  
“When we have the north behind us, Myrtus will go to Troy and offer them what he promised Achilles.”

Patroclus studied Eudoros for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It is something Priam has wanted for a long time. But I don’t think Hector will agree. I am giving you a chance to run. Take your son, and go to Troy. Hector might just agree to help you. It is better than nothing, anyway. Better than death.”

Patroclus leaned forward. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Eudoros hesitated, and rose. “I thought …”

“You thought you could influence him,” Patroclus finished for him.  
“My brother proves difficult to turn, does he not?”

Eudoros looked down, stricken. “I never meant to betray my home. All I wanted… I wanted someplace to be, where I would be given the regard I deserved. I wanted what my father promised me. I didn’t think he meant to destroy us.”

Patroclus pursed his lips, thinking. “I don’t know if Achilles will listen to me.”

“He won’t,” said Eudoros. “Even if he did, he is barred from all sides. My husband, you see, has made his plans accordingly. This is why I am telling you to run.” 

“I’m not going to leave Phthia behind while Myrtus razes it to the ground,” Patroclus objected. 

Eudoros smiled, cold, distant, and helpless. 

“Then I suppose this is goodbye.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, you guys! We are nearing the end. Bear with me while I get the last of this written up. Thank you to everyone who has been following this story, let us reach the finish line together!

He’d tried to sleep the previous night, only to find himself tossing and turning. The feeling of restlessness would not leave him, like a heavy weight in the middle of his chest, clouding his thoughts. In the end he went to Macarius’ cradle, took his sleeping son and brought him to the bed; he held him until the hours before dawn, and Macarius’ comfortable weight lulled him to sleep at last. 

He was woken when Achilles came into the room. It was as quiet as the sanctuary where they had sat with Peleus’ body. The first rays of the sun were streaming in through the windows, giving the room a soft, warm glow. Achilles looked nearly as restless as Patroclus felt; today he would be crowned king. 

According to Phthian tradition, it was necessary to wait a full month after the funeral before a full coronation ceremony took place, but Achilles had already started to resume his father’s duties. It kept him up late at night. Peleus had made it look easy. 

Patroclus blinked sleepily as Achilles approached and sat on the edge of the bed. They let the minutes pass in silence, neither one wanted to break it, neither one wanted to acknowledge out loud the change that would happen in just a few hours. 

Achilles leaned forward and tapped the tip of Macarius’ nose with his finger; looking at him, nothing in his expression, just looking. When Macarius woke up and Polymele came and took him away to be fed, Achilles slid under the sheets and lay next to Patroclus. 

His gaze was as open and uninhibited as it had ever been, and for a moment Patroclus’ chest throbbed, wanting to reach out with whatever comfort he could provide, but unable to. Achilles tapped Patroclus on the nose, as he had done with Macarius, and suddenly Patroclus felt the tiniest fragments of sadness collect within him. They seemed to lay there for an unlimited amount of time, a little pocket of air shielded from the world. They could hear Macarius’ coos in the other room. 

Achilles leaned over then, so he was looking down at Patroclus. There was nothing suggestive about it, no trace of desire in his eyes. He was just looking, like it was the first time he had seen Patroclus; his eyes focused the way one might study a painting.   
When Patroclus brought a hand up to stroke his neck, Achilles rolled over to lay comfortably on top of him; his form cast a shadow over Patroclus, too dark to even see the green of his eyes. When Patroclus did not make a sound, Achilles’ hands started to move, simply holding his face at first, then moving down over his sides, the touch so light. He touched Patroclus’ waist, his hips, roamed down the sides of his thighs, and over his legs. Patroclus closed his eyes; they were smarting, and he could not give in to emotion, to memory. 

He moved his hands over Achilles’ back, learning the smooth, hard muscle, the bumps and ridges that rose and smoothened in time to Achilles’ movements. They were getting to know each other, in a way. It was a kind of acknowledgment of one another; an unspoken understanding that this day marked a change in many things, but Patroclus was here, and Achilles was here. 

At long last, brushing his lips against Patroclus’ in the barest semblance of a kiss, Achilles rolled over and reluctantly shifted to leave the bed. Phoinix would be looking for him, eager to begin preparations for the ceremony. Patroclus stared after him as he left, wondering if he would look any different, seem any different, once he was king.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ceremony was long and drawn-out, despite its restrained air. The advisors were sluggish in their movements, as though in some trance; unable to comprehend that their old king was gone, and in his place, a new one. There had been extensive ritual activity, a long procession to the main temple in the heart of Phthia, for the gods to accept the new king’s vows. And then they had made the trip back to the coronation room, which had not been occupied since Peleus’ ascension to the throne, decades ago. 

Patroclus nursed a headache as the event passed minute by minute, Polymele was behind him holding Macarius, and Troilus stood next to him. They were required to be present for the entire ordeal, standing, no less. He curled his toes to soothe the balls of his feet, which had started to burn. It was near sunset when Achilles took his seat on the throne of Phthia, the gleaming golden crown atop his head. He looked nothing like Peleus had looked - with his tall, imposing form and light hair, the smooth features of his youthful face, he looked more like a god - the kind in legends every mother told their child, an avatar of the sun.   
\--------------------------------------------------

It was at the banquet later that night, the buzz of the crowd washing over them, when Patroclus glanced at Achilles and dared to ask the question.

“Have you decided?” 

The look Achilles returned, nearly mournful but with a strong finality, told him everything he needed to know.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He and Antilochus stood awkwardly facing each other, it had been some time since they’d had a real conversation. In the past month, the strain between them had faded, but Antilochus was not the cheerful young man he had once been. He was more often seen looking stoic and aloof, to the point where Eurypylus did not make conversation with him anymore, and Eucharia looked uneasy when he entered the room. Somewhere along the lines, Antilochus had lost the last of his childhood. 

“You’ll go?” Patroclus whispered, both hesitant and hopeful. 

Antilochus said nothing for a while, but his eventual nod was firm and decisive.

Patroclus thought, then, of everything Antilochus had done for him, everything the younger man had sacrificed and experienced. It made his heart lurch, with guilt, sorrow, and the all-encompassing reassurance that this was someone at his side. 

“Antilochus,” he said. “Why do you do these things for me?”

The space between Antilochus’ brows started to crease, and his mouth twitched as he tried to find an answer. Finally, he reached an arm out and placed it on Patroclus’ shoulder, the grip firm and solid. He reclined his head, deep and respectful, the way Patroclus would have once done to Achilles. 

“I was chosen by the king, your highness. But it is you I serve.” 

It was all that Antilochus felt needed to be said, and it was enough. 

Patroclus nodded, moved at the words, and watched as Antilochus took off for the long journey ahead of him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had not spoken of the decision. Achilles sat in Peleus’ chair, an unhappy tilt to his mouth; they had been ruminating plans together for many hours, a collection of maps laid out on the table before them. 

“You know I believed you,” Achilles said, finally looking up at Patroclus.

Patroclus thought back to how he had run to Achilles’ chambers, the day Eudoros had given him the warning. How he had pleaded, giving everything, saying everything, if only for Achilles to heed his words and call on Hector’s aid before Myrtus’ influence reached Troy. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Patroclus answered, softly. “You’d already made up your mind.”

Achilles sighed, taking a map and pushing it towards Patroclus. 

“If you will place your trust in me, for even a moment.”

He pointed at the map, his finger making a loud thud on the fragile parchment. 

“The southern kingdoms along the coast which my father took.”

Patroclus looked. They were a scattering of lands, small and imperceptible on the map.   
“Machaon once told me they were loyal to your father.”   
He frowned then, wondering what Achilles meant to do. If they even had a hope of it working. 

“I won’t fool myself. They do not have the strength to defend us. They were never very involved in military affairs.”

“But…?”

“But …” Achilles hesitated, as if he was anticipating a specific response.  
“But if I bring them here … if I convince the kings of the south to rally to our cause, we would be prepared. We would not be defenseless.” 

Patroclus stilled, alarmed realization dawning on him. He cursed himself, why had he not thought of this? After everything Machaon had taught him.

“They will invade,” he whispered, not daring to say it too loud, for fear of the knowledge.   
“The Arisbeans and the Trachians. Like Pherae did, when your mother -” he paused. He’d never spoken of the queen to Achilles, and would not start now.  
“History will repeat itself.”

Achilles scoffed out a bitter laugh.   
“Yes. Once again, Priam proves the extent of his creativity.” A mocking tone.

They shared a glance, and Patroclus felt it. The anticipation. A slow burn that had ignited, of desperate yearning, of aspiration. 

“You want to set a trap.”

At Achilles’ nod, Patroclus exhaled, thoughts swimming in his head.

“When the Pheraeans came for Phthia, your father was unprepared. But you…”

“I am not my father,” Achilles replied, voice strong as iron.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the morning, Achilles departed for the kingdoms along the southern coast. It would be a long journey, and it had taken time to gather the council of kings in order to hear his cause. This time, he did not take Patroclus with him. He ordered Patroclus to stay; there would be someone needed to oversee the palace, and the city, now that Achilles would be gone. 

It was also this day that Antilochus returned.   
\--------------------------------------------

“Everything is done?” Patroclus questioned. 

Antilochus nodded, without a word. 

Patroclus took a breath. The chasm in his heart had begun to reopen.   
He held it at bay, inhaling and exhaling, steeling his resolve. 

“All right. I’ve asked Machaon and Phoinix to look after things for now. We must go, if we are to make it on time.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a solid week’s journey, to and fro. The carriage bumped across the road, making Patroclus think of the last time he’d made a journey like this, wrung with nausea, dread and desperation threatening to overwhelm him. His heart was breaking at how near-identical the experiences were, when placed side by side in his memory.

The scene from the carriage passed by in a blur, but he already knew, this was a beautiful place. It lightened his heart just a little, as the carriage finally drew to a stop, in full view of the estate. Whatever forces he had conquered to hold together the void in his soul cracked and broke, as he descended the carriage, Macarius wide awake and alert in his arms, dark eyes moving to take in what he saw.

Antilochus had dismounted from his horse, and led Patroclus over to the entrance of the main house. A man and his wife had come out to greet them, the people Antilochus had been dealing with, making arrangements on Patroclus’ behalf. Patroclus’ hands trembled then, and he struggled to keep his son steady and secure in his arms. 

“Sir,” the man greeted. “We welcome you to Thessaly.”

Thessaly. The chambers of Patroclus’ heart echoed at the word, a song of greeting, a song of farewell. 

He looked down at Macarius, who had started to gnaw on his little fist, at ease and unbothered. “I would give him freedom,” the words rang in his head, the voice warm and clear as though it were yesterday. 

They talked with the wardens of the estate, but there was a rush. They really had to go. By the time Patroclus made it back to Phthia, Achilles would have fulfilled his mission to the south, and would be on his way back as well. It was time. 

Patroclus looked at the man and his wife, at their kindly faces, and hoped this was what Macarius had to look forward to, for however long he could give him.   
He handed Macarius over to the wife, arms shaking, lips clamped to stop the tears that would fall. He kissed Macarius, on his head, where locks of dark hair had started to grow. He kissed him on his nose, his cheeks, and on his little hands. 

There were no words. Only the sound of loss, the last vestiges of his strength crumbling and falling.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the road back to Phthia, Antilochus leaned in through the window and said, “We could go back.” 

Patroclus shook his head. He had made this decision long ago, but if he ran, if he ran away from Phthia to stay with his son, there would be no protecting Machaon and Podalirius from Achilles’ wrath.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was in his chambers, on his bed, gathering himself and drying his tears. The cradle in the corner was empty and abandoned, he could not look at it. Machaon had come in to inform him that Achilles had returned, but he could not bring himself to go out and greet him. The ambassador cast his gaze around the room, landing on the empty cradle, and said nothing, his mouth set in a grim line. 

It was past midnight when Achilles came looking for Patroclus, wondering why he had not been greeted. He looked exhausted, but there was a fire in his eyes, an exhilaration that had died with Peleus but seemed to have revived itself again.

“I thought you should be the first to know,” Achilles called, sweeping in the way he had done so many times. He placed his hands on either side of Patroclus, drawing him into a quick embrace, then let go. 

“They will join us,” he said, voice hushed and proud.   
“In a few days, King Lycaon and his men will set off for Phthia. The rest will follow.” 

He closed his eyes, as if savoring this information. 

“We will win.” 

A grin.

“We will win. We have to, I have given everything I have, and it must be enough!”

This was a mood Patroclus had never seen before, a side of Achilles that reminded him of Peleus’ words at their wedding feast. A champion. In that moment, Achilles was a champion of Phthia, and there was no taking away from that. 

“We can rest easy, for tonight. I wouldn’t want to keep you from sleep. Come,” Achilles said, taking Patroclus’ hand. He started to turn, then paused, eyes flitting from one side of the room to another, as though he had forgotten something.

“Where is Macarius?”

For all Patroclus tried, he could not muster an answer. His lips were sealed shut, and he met Achilles’ gaze, his pulse quickening, heart pounding.

Achilles frowned and went to Macarius’ cradle. “Polymele!” he yelled, voice impatient. At the absence of an answer, he went into the side room where the nursemaids tended to the infant. A second later he swooped out, going to the sitting room, the bath, the servant’s chambers. He gripped Patroclus’ wrist like an iron shackle, dragging him to Troilus’ chambers.

Troilus had been asleep and started awake, frightened, as the door slammed open and Achilles started to ransack the room. He ignored Troilus, and turned to Patroclus. 

“Where is our son?” his voice was low, teeth gritted, but Patroclus could see the panic in his eyes, blazing like a burning field; Achilles had started to shake. 

“Where is he?!” he screamed, and moved over to the bed, grabbing Troilus to fling him aside, checking the bed, that Macarius had not been with the other consort.

Patroclus was still as a statue, gripping the sides of his robe like it would stop his knees from buckling. He had been prepared to face Achilles’ fury, but this - 

They spent the hours this way, until the sun rose, Achilles searching, and searching, until he sent his men away, sent Patroclus to his room. 

Patroclus trembled in his bed, under the covers, fighting the grief, and the shame. Losing the battle.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Achilles did not send for him for three days. The heralds arrived, he spotted them out the window. News of impending arrival, the troops from the south.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last messenger had arrived, when Patroclus made his decision. He would go to Achilles, and accept whatever fate the king would set on him. But first, he needed to make sure of one thing. 

He went to the archives, to find Machaon and Podalirius, who had been placed under arrest the day Achilles returned to find Macarius gone.   
The ambassador and his brother were disheveled and suffered from a loss of sleep, but they had not been treated poorly. They looked up when they saw Patroclus. 

“Whatever it is you have to say, I don’t want to hear it!” Machaon snapped, but looking closer at him, he was more sad than angry. 

“Machaon …” said Patroclus, unable to find the words. He looked at Podalirius.

“Patroclus,” Podalirius’ voice was wistful and confused. “Why did you do it?”

“You know why,” Machaon lashed back, and the look he now gave Patroclus was begrudging, but wracked with a reluctant understanding. 

“I came to tell you,” Patroclus started. He looked back and forth at the brothers, needing them to listen.

“You both need to go. You need to find a way out. Achilles will punish you, for what I’ve done, and -” he stopped when Machaon raised a hand. 

“We will not leave you, highness,” and his tone invited no argument.   
“We came with you to Phthia, and it is here we will stay.”   
He looked down then, and Patroclus thought he looked even sadder than before, despite his firm tone. 

“Patroclus,” said Podalirius, getting up to take Patroclus’ arm. “Come.”

Confused, Patroclus let Podalirius lead him away, looking over his shoulder at Machaon. 

They came to the gardens, Patroclus’ gardens. The trees were swaying in the wind, their white blossoms covering the ground. He had no idea why Podalirius had brought him here, and looked at his tutor in a question, but Podalirius shook his head and gestured towards the back of the gardens. He turned and left before Patroclus could reply. 

Patroclus looked, and could make out Antilochus sitting on a bench. The same bench Patroclus himself had sat on, many times, his favorite spot in the gardens to watch the sun set, to feel the leaves rustling his back from the lower-hanging trees. Antilochus was not doing anything. He just sat, and shared a look with Patroclus to acknowledge him. 

“Hello,” he said, and smiled wanly. It reminded Patroclus of the Antilochus who had first come to his retinue, always beaming, chattering.

“Antilochus … what -?” What was he doing here? As far as Patroclus knew, the only time Antilochus came to the gardens was to accompany him. 

“Peaceful here, isn’t it? I can see why you like it so much.” Antilochus paused, gazing serenely out at the scene.

“Yes. Well … it was the only place that was - mine, aside from my rooms. I have many memories here,” Patroclus replied.

He saw Antilochus’ smile wane a little. 

“I’m … the southern kings and their troops will arrive before we know it. I must… go to Achilles, to see what he wants of me. Do you want to come along?” It was the first time he’d asked Antilochus for company, the younger man usually followed without question, as was his duty.

Antilochus smiled again, and shook his head. 

“I won’t be going with you.” He looked at Patroclus then, gaze knowing and sad.   
“I can’t anymore, Patroclus. I - you won’t be alone, alright? Machaon and Podalirius have promised me that they will stay, to help you when you need it. Even though you don’t need it. You are clever, beautiful, and spirited. I am proud to know you.” 

Patroclus frowned then. The words were a goodbye. 

“Antilochus? Where are you going?” A flash of horror.   
“Where is he sending you?”

Antilochus’ eyes started to well then, but he kept his gaze steady. 

“Patroclus, I have taken poison,” he whispered.  
His hushed voice rang across the gardens, as though he had screamed it. 

Patroclus’ heart missed a beat. 

Antilochus’ shoulders had begun to quaver.

“...You… it can’t be true. No, you’re coming with me,” Patroclus insisted, voice cracking.

Antilochus shook his head, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.  
“I will be dead by tonight. It is a slow-acting poison.”

Patroclus collapsed then, taking Antilochus’ hand and gripping it tight, so tight, holding on.

“He punished you for what I’ve done. He -” he started to sob then, quietly, bent over Antilochus’ lap, the tears falling onto the young guard’s tunic. He felt Antilochus’ hand on his back, and the last of his spirit went away; he sank down and laid his head on Antilochus’ knee. 

“Forgive me,” he gasped, although his voice was so thick with tears, he could barely hear himself.

“Forgive me.”

“Forgive me.”

“Forgive me.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was dusk, the clouds covering the moon, no light for the coming hours. 

No matter how much Antilochus asked him to go, Patroclus refused.

“I will stay. I will stay here with you, until you go,” he’d said, when the last of his tears had dried.

In him now was an ache, strong and enduring, but they weathered it together.

Antilochus’ head was on his shoulder by then, breaths weakened; he was nearing his final hours. 

“There is nothing to forgive, you know,” he rasped, startling the silence. 

“I did it because I wanted to. We were always friends.”

Patroclus fought the tears again.

In a few hours, painfully, Antilochus was gone.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus had begun to gather himself, steadying his feet; the cold in him felt buried there forever, Antilochus’ body slumped on the bench beside him. 

He needed to look for someone who would take care of the body. 

Approaching the exit, he came face-to-face with Achilles, leaning there, eyes as cruel as they were unhappy. 

Patroclus took a breath, and kept walking. 

“Must you take away everything I love?” he croaked.

Achilles looked at him, unreadable. 

“You took my son. And I am going to find him, Patroclus. No matter how far I have to look, I will find him.”


	20. Chapter 20

Five kingdoms. Five, headed by King Lycaon of Pharsalus. Their ships had arrived three weeks ago, the others had followed on land, and arrived in the morning. A council of kings was called to discuss the following days. Word had reached the palace that Myrtus was in Troy - Eudoros had been telling the truth. 

Patroclus had been both relieved and apprehensive when he heard. There was always the possibility that Eudoros had lied; however much he had wanted to believe him, that the nobleman-now-consort truly loved his country and didn’t wish to see it destroyed. 

The sounds of the armies outside kept Patroclus awake at night. He could not drown out the noise of talk and bustling activity, camped as they were outside the palace walls. The soldiers marched, and the rattle of their armor made its way into Patroclus’ dreams, unable to separate illusion from reality. 

Five kingdoms, and it was still a small amount. They were a magnificent bunch - the lands of the south were fertile and prosperous, the soldiers reflected that. Their armor gleamed, their weapons were new and shiny. And very much unused. These were men who had never seen battle, never had to fight for their lives, not since the times when Peleus had conquered them. They were young men, led by a duty to their ruler, perhaps a desire for adventure. Battle in a faraway land. 

Their arrival had caused discomfort among the Phthian soldiers; many had not ever been to the south, and were unfamiliar with the customs of these men. It would take much effort indeed to train the men so they could work together, stand beside each other in battle. 

Every day was a wait. They waited for the army of northerners, whom Myrtus had sent to invade them. It was possible that Achilles was wrong. That there would be no invasion. Perhaps Troy, Opus, and the northerners would simply unite, declaring war out in the open. But Patroclus knew Myrtus. And by extension, so did Achilles.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was music and feasting involved, the raucous sounds of laughter. As dire as their situation was, these southerners were unaccustomed to hardship - they could dine, and dance, even when Achilles had warned them that they faced death in the coming days. 

It would not be long now, he had forewarned. Having accepted Myrtus’ offer of alliance, and the newly granted independence of the Arisbeans - now was the time they would strike. When Phthia was perceived to be resting easy, awaiting a call to besiege Troy, a sitting duck ready to be shot.

It was on this night when Patroclus went to Troilus’ chambers, unable to stand the loneliness anymore. He couldn’t go to sleep, and even the servants kept away, with the infant prince missing. Outside, Eurypylus stood by the door; the spot where Antilochus had always stood was glaring in its vacancy. 

Troilus wasn’t where he expected him to be. The younger consort was usually in bed by this time of night, but tonight he paced the room, running his fingers through his hair, anxious. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Patroclus, though he knew Troilus never denied his company.

Troilus looked at him, and ran forward to pull him into an embrace. 

“Oh, Patroclus,” he said, and he was tearful.

“What’s the matter?” Patroclus looked out the window, seeing the soldiers camped there, some drinking and talking, a gathering of them entertaining themselves by taking turns juggling sticks and rocks. It was loud. 

“You’ve seen the armies from the south,” Troilus replied. “What do you think of them?”

Patroclus scratched his head, steering Troilus towards the sitting room so they could sit and talk.   
“They’re … poorly trained. Inexperienced,” Patroclus admitted. 

Achilles had mentioned the south had been relatively uninvolved in military affairs. And they were not tasked to fight alongside the Phthians against forces led by united Troy, Opus, and the north. But … Patroclus wasn’t sure if they were up to thwarting an expected invasion, either. 

“The Phthians don’t work well with them. I … this is going to be a challenge.”

Troilus nodded, he had been expecting this answer. “I’ve found a way to go back to Troy,” he declared. 

Patroclus started. “What? You’re leaving?”

Troilus took his hands then. “Please say you won’t hate me for it. Patroclus … you’ve been my only friend here all this while. I would hate to disappoint you. But ...” he paused. “I’ve been gathering information. It’s taken me a long time, because I never leave the wing, and I had to listen hard. I thought to escape on one of the ships, at first. It’s the fastest way to Troy. But they are too well-guarded. I had to bide my time, and find another way. Eventually I learned about the eastern road. There is a Mysian military post halfway, that would grant me passage to Mysia. It’s what the commoners use. I would be less likely to be caught. And then … when I get to Mysia, I can hire a boat to Troy.”

“You have money?” Patroclus asked, immediately. 

Troilus reached into his robe and fished out a handful of silver coins. It wasn’t much, especially for a prince, but it was enough. Patroclus bit his lip and looked Troilus up and down, coming to terms with his friend’s departure. Troilus had been a constant presence ever since he’d arrived. They had grown attached to one another, in a way. He felt almost like he was losing a younger brother. His thoughts drifted to Antilochus then, and felt his eyes smart.

Troilus noticed and started to panic.   
“Alright, I won’t go! I’m sorry, Patroclus, I should never have thought of it.”  
Brave words, from someone who had only been a boy not too long ago, who had left his home looking for adventure, thinking his brothers would protect him; only to find himself stranded in a strange land and unable to return. 

“You must go,” Patroclus decided. He took Troilus in his arms then, and leaned their foreheads together.   
“By all the gods. There is but one thing I ask of you, when you go.” 

“Ask,” said Troilus, hugging Patroclus tight, it was the last they would see of each other.   
“Ask, and I will give you everything I can.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were at another council meeting; Patroclus had been asked to attend this time. It had taken weeks for Achilles’ rage at him to subside, and for his at Achilles. Now they worked together in a grudging compromise, although whatever solidarity they had built together since Macarius’ birth, was now gone. 

“They have been spotted outside the city walls,” King Lycaon said. An older man, distinguished and more ferocious than his kingdom might have reflected.   
“The Arisbean scouts. You were right, King Achilles.”  
He treated Achilles with deference, although the other rulers seemed to hold some semblance of resentment - this young king, sitting on the throne that commanded them all. 

“It is as I have anticipated, King Lycaon,” Achilles replied with a satisfied nod.   
“But we must make our move before the scouts approach the city, and notice there is something amiss. Your troops may be few, and able to blend in with our Phthian men. But they will notice the ships in the harbor.”

“You did ask us to take our flags down,” Lycaon agreed. “It was a sound idea, especially since the scouts were nearer than we thought.”

“It is shameful,” grumbled another ruler, King Croesus, Patroclus thought it was. 

“No, it is preventing us from being discovered,” Lycaon argued, voice cracking like a whip. They argued like that for several minutes, until Achilles cut in. 

“We will have your men guard the passes leading to the city,” Achilles said.   
“It might delay them, but they no doubt outnumber us. It is the element of surprise that will prove to be an advantage, before they reach the heart of the city and chaos breaks loose.”

Croesus and the other rulers looked disturbed at the mention of chaos. 

“I thought to stop them quickly and efficiently,” Croesus replied. 

Lycaon glared at him. “It’s not going to be quick and efficient! We still have to rouse the men, get them comfortable fighting side by side. It is going to take a lot of work, Croesus!” 

This was when Achilles stopped, and Patroclus could see the wheels turning in his head. How were they going to get the men working together? How were they going to get the southerners working together? It was already looking as though the kings of the south were used to being in constant disagreement, and their men would not be different. 

“You think they mean to take the palace,” Patroclus cut in, and tried not to flush visibly when all eyes fell on him. Achilles was looking at him from the corner of his eyes, both indignant that he had spoken, and expectant at what he would say. 

Croesus scoffed at him, but Lycaon’s gaze was intent. 

“That was what they planned the first time,” Achilles replied, softly.   
“I think Myrtus would be entertained by the irony of it.”

Patroclus paused. “Then we should leave the palace,” he said, and the council broke out in disorder, a flurry of protests filling the room. 

“An interesting idea, Royal Consort, but the palace is our stronghold,” Lycaon replied.

Patroclus was preparing his argument when Achilles turned to him, face stony, and asked, “Why.” A brisk demand. 

“You’ve set this up so the northerners won’t expect us,” Patroclus said.   
He was starting to panic, what if they didn’t listen to him?   
“You said so yourself, the element of surprise matters. Why not take it a step further? I know the palace is our foundation, but this is where they will strike. They will think to find us here, where they can surround us and close in for the kill. We could delay them. Have them think we’re in the palace, but we’ll evacuate.”

“And where exactly are we supposed to go?” Lycaon asked, puzzled but intrigued. 

Patroclus turned to Achilles. “The city. Your people will support their king.”

It was true. The Phthian people were enormously loyal, and had great love for their monarch. It was a closely-guarded secret that the infant prince had gone missing, so to them, Achilles was a responsible ruler who had given them an heir, and granted them stability in a time of crisis. 

“You want to involve civilians,” Achilles said, voice dangerous. 

“They wouldn’t have to be in the midst of it,” Patroclus pleaded. “Speak with them. Make them aware of the danger. They trust you. You are their king.”

“I suppose it is better to have word spread, and civilians knowing to stay inside and be cautious. Otherwise there would be panic and turmoil if the fighting reaches residential areas,” Lycaon noted, his tone agreeable. 

Achilles looked like he wanted to smite Lycaon’s head off, but forced himself to look at Patroclus, to think it over. 

“We will not tell the whole city about the invasion,” he decided.   
“There will be a small number of people, those living closest to the entryways. We will work with them, to accommodate the southern troops. I will stay in the palace, to ensure that the men are successful in defeating the invaders.” 

Patroclus sighed in relief. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. Achilles nodded, but didn’t look at him.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had begun evacuations when the first line of Arisbean soldiers were spotted outside the city boundaries. Everyone in the palace was told to go home, the only ones remaining behind were Phthian soldiers, some dressed as guards, others in civilian clothing to keep up the facade of activity in the palace. Patroclus had had to reassure Lykaia, Terpe, Eucharia, and the other attendants that their services were not needed, and they should go home to their families. 

There was a division of the Phthian troops, some were posted to defend the palace when the Arisbeans attacked, distracting them. The others, under the command of Captain Menesthius, were assigned to several locations in the city, where they would easily regroup and surround the palace while the Arisbeans were inside. The captain had come out of retirement to command this attack; Patroclus knew it boosted morale for the soldiers, who looked up to their most accomplished veteran.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re really going to stay in here?” Patroclus asked, ignoring Achilles’ curt expression, mouth pressed in a tight line.

“It is my responsibility to command the troops.”

“The lieutenants can do that. They know the risks. We’re dealing with our own soldiers, not the southerners.”

Achilles’ knuckles were white as he gripped the reports his commanders had handed in. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, voice cutting.

There was a pause, as Patroclus pondered whether he should ask.

“Come with me,” he said, eventually. 

“You don’t have to put yourself in danger here. They’ll expect you to be here. They might … kill you.”

Achilles laughed then, harsh and grating. 

“Such faith you have in my fighting prowess, Patroclus.” 

“You’ve only been in a war once,” Patroclus bit back. 

Achilles spun to face him, enraged. 

“You don’t know me,” he hissed. 

“That doesn’t mean I want to see you killed,” Patroclus supplied. 

Several moments passed, but Achilles’ anger retreated. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. There were dark circles under his eyes. 

“Patroclus,” he said. 

“Please,” said Patroclus. “Just come with me to the civilians’ district. Have faith in your men.”

Achilles said nothing, but when Patroclus was about to give up and leave, he tilted his head in the tiniest of nods.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While the enemy troops drew closer to the city walls, they left the palace, under the cover of night. Dressed in civilian clothes, they passed by the southern troops, who had been separated from the Phthian soldiers. Each formation was posted at the entries of the city, in strategic hiding places where they could close in on Arisbean invaders and prevent them from entering through different locations. It was their best bet to have the invaders quickly surrounded. 

Looking at them, how few their numbers were, Patroclus knew their hope rested on the soldiers in the palace and under Captain Menesthius’ authority. If the Arisbeans were as many as they appeared, they would soon overpower the southerners, and be able to seize the palace before the Phthian soldiers had time to respond. 

The stakes were high, indeed, and Patroclus could only hold out hope that his request had been heeded.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had found a civilian house at the edge of the city, the occupants had been willing enough to empty the house for the army’s use. It was this house that Achilles now used as his base. He left, early in the morning, to meet with Captain Menesthius and finalize arrangements for the oncoming attack. 

Patroclus could only stay in, wringing his hands. Achilles hadn’t liked that they were so unprotected, but the house was in an isolated corner of the street, and it proved a consolation. 

Later that night Achilles snuck back in, wearing his civilian’s clothes. 

Patroclus was watching the lamps in the street go off one by one, as it neared the midnight hour. 

“I used to wonder what it was like,” he mused.

Achilles looked at him. “What?”

“Being … one of these people. Ordinary people. Living in a house, on a street.”  
He pointed at the kitchen, the dining room.  
“Chopping onions. Preparing food for your loved ones.”

Achilles looked around the room, quiet and considering.

“Do you still wonder?” he asked. 

Patroclus shrugged.

“Do you wish you had been born into a different life?” Achilles pressed. 

Patroclus thought back, to his childhood in Opus. The forbidding gaze of his father, the distant memories of his mother. Briseis, taking care of him as long as he could remember. And then the arrival to Phthia. Automedon. He smiled at the thought. His beloved Macarius. And now only him and Achilles, and everything they had done to each other. 

“No.” He paused, feeling wistful. “I used to. I used to pray to the gods that they would give me something different. A chance at happiness.” 

Achilles looked down, but whether he understood, or couldn’t relate at all, Patroclus would never know.   
\----------------------------------------------------

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Patroclus breathed. 

Achilles’ head snapped up, wary. Patroclus crossed the room to stand before him, standing close. 

“I asked Troilus to send for Hector.”

Achilles reddened, beginning to anger. Patroclus put a hand on his arm. 

“Achilles. My king. You know they would tip the scales in our favor.”   
He was weak, and so, so tired, but if there was one thing he needed Achilles to understand, it was this. 

Achilles swallowed. “I have never understood why you trust Hector.” 

“Because he is our only hope,” Patroclus urged. “We have no choice.”

He could see Achilles wasn’t convinced.   
Taking a breath, he said, “You once told me you are not your father.”  
This drew Achilles’ gaze to him again.  
“Have you never thought that maybe he is the same?” 

This made Achilles pause, his uninviting expression turned thoughtful.

They stood for a while, tense, silent.

“You are asking me,” Achilles said, “For something I should never have given you.” His voice was hushed, but he sounded more anguished than wrathful.

“If it is the last time you ever place your trust in me,” Patroclus pleaded.   
“Let it be this. Achilles, let it be this.”

Achilles gave him a long look. And then he pulled Patroclus towards him and kissed him hard.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The invasion had begun. 

The first of the Arisbean troops entered the city, killing the southerners who stood in their path. Patroclus could hear them marching, the sound of their feet pounding against the ground, echoing in his head. 

The southerners slowly fell, one by one. They fought hard, these young men, who had never seen war. They fought and they died. 

The Arisbeans were far more prepared, far more disciplined than they had imagined. The way they marched in their formations, crisp and uniform, making their way to the palace as though they were in no hurry. The trumpet of war sounded in the city, its clarion call ringing in the night. Patroclus peered outside at the other houses, imagining the civilians huddled indoors, under their covers; trembling in their beds or whispering to soothe their little ones. 

Patroclus listened to the marching, and a vision of his brother’s face formed. Proud and smirking, anticipating the downfall of a king he hated, the ruin of a nation. Eudoros behind him, head bowed in an effort not to weep. 

Achilles roused him before dawn, having returned from counsel with the commanders. 

“There is a skirmish on the eastern road,” he said. 

Patroclus lit up, his heart becoming bold. “It’s him.”

“They are fighting with the southerners. They aren’t on our side,” Achilles replied. 

“Take me,” Patroclus insisted. 

Achilles refused, again and again, but when Patroclus ran out the door after him, he had no choice but to grab him.

“You will stay close and behind me,” he hissed. 

“You are a civilian.” He took the hood of Patroclus’ cloak and flung it over his head. “Understand?”  
Patroclus nodded. “I will do as you say. Just take me with you.”

They went.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The southern army had retreated, too many of them wounded. On the other side, there was a formation of troops Patroclus recognized. Trojans, from their uniform. 

“If Priam has sent his entire army, we are ill-starred indeed,” Achilles complained.   
“I don’t understand why he would let the Arisbeans do the dirty work for him, then send reinforcements anyway.”

Patroclus was crouched behind him, avoiding the gazes of the southern soldiers.   
“A herald is approaching,” he observed. “He has a flag of parley.”

They watched as the herald crossed the field. Some of the archers held up their bows, but Achilles warned them not to shoot. He sent one of the soldiers out to receive the herald.   
“Tell them we will accept their parley,” he said, aware that the visibly unhurt Trojans did not require a truce. They could have just killed the southerners, but instead, they had allowed them to withdraw. 

They waited, and then the soldier returned. 

“Prince Hector requests for the king to meet him on the boundary line.”

Patroclus breathed out a sigh of relief. Troilus hadn’t failed. 

Achilles turned to look at him. 

“He could have killed the troops,” Patroclus reminded him. “He’s showing us that he isn’t here in accordance with his father. At least listen to what he has to say.”

“You are not. Coming with me,” Achilles replied then, flatly. 

Patroclus frowned, frustrated. He knew Achilles was not going to budge on this.

“Alright. I’ll stay out of sight. But listen to him, please, before you draw a conclusion.”

Achilles acquiesced, and prepared to confront Hector on the boundary line.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could see the two figures, facing each other, talking. Hector, in his gleaming helm. He wondered if Troilus had been accepted back at the Trojan court. If Priam was at all angry he had returned, or relieved, that his son wouldn’t be caught up in the fray. At least Troilus was safe, Patroclus thought. 

At long last, Achilles returned, and gave the order for the Trojans to be granted entry into the city.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were at the camp in the city, Captain Menesthius overseeing the trap laid out for the Arisbeans. Hector had brought his men to join the Phthians immediately. The Phthians looked relieved that they had not been asked to work with more southerners, they were used to fighting alongside Trojans in the north. When training together, they fought like a well-oiled machine. Things were starting to look up; once the Arisbeans entered the palace, they would be facing a seasoned and highly skilled army, both inside and out. 

“You did the right thing, calling for me,” said Hector, eyeing Patroclus. 

It had been a while since Patroclus had seen the other man. 

“I had an inkling that your father’s ambitions did not match your own.”

“I think it is a bad omen to unite with Opus. A country that uses its enemies to take down an ally. No good will come of that agreement.” 

“Yet your father does not see through it.”

“He has always envisioned conquering the entirety of the south. When your brother approached him with the north in hand, too - well. It was difficult to refuse.”

They walked in comfortable silence. 

“You didn’t have to send help,” Patroclus said. He looked up at Hector.   
“You have my gratitude.”

Hector looked at him, seeming like there were many things he wanted to say.

“You offered my brother solace,” he admitted.   
“I would not have sent help otherwise. Defying my father is always a risk. But … the way Troilus looked when he came home. And we had heard, how ill-treated he was.”   
Hector’s gaze hardened, looking towards Achilles in the distant. Patroclus saw there was barely concealed contempt. 

“He did not have to treat my brother that way,” Hector continued. “After all, he asked for him. Convinced me.” He looked sad then. “I have failed Troilus greatly.”

Patroclus looked at the ground. He didn’t think Troilus resented Hector. At least, not entirely. Whatever Hector was thinking at the moment, it was a likelihood that Troilus would eventually forgive him.

“He didn’t throw a fit?” Hector nudged a shoulder in Achilles’ direction.  
“When he found out my brother had fled?”

Patroclus thought back to how Achilles had received the news, rather calmly, as though he already knew it would happen. 

“I think he … came to terms, that it was a match which should not have happened,” Patroclus replied uncertainly. 

Hector gave a long and loud sigh.

“All this trouble,” he said. “What a shame. If we had only waited.”

Waited for Peleus to die, Patroclus thought.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was happening. The palace was being stormed. Reports had been sent back to the main camp. Achilles was there all night, in counsel with the commanders, rousing the men. 

Patroclus waited up with them, helping the medics set up infirmary stations for the wounded, which rescue forces would retrieve from the palace as soon as the Arisbeans were surrounded. Machaon was among the medics, Podalirius beside him; they had been released from their arrest during the evacuation. 

Patroclus approached Machaon, and asked to speak with him in private.

“You’re asking me to go,” the ambassador sighed. He had an almost fond expression on his face when he looked at Patroclus.

“Will you listen to me?” Patroclus queried. 

Machaon looked back at Podalirius, who was rolling out kits and arranging sheets of cloth for bandages. The brothers had always had a somewhat quarrelsome relationship - mostly due to Machaon, who was the more temperamental of the two. Seeing the look on Machaon’s face now, there was no doubt of the deep love he held for his brother. 

“That depends,” Machaon snapped. “Do you plan on idiocy, where I will later learn you were killed doing something you weren’t supposed to?” 

“I will take care of myself, Machaon,” Patroclus replied, suddenly regretful they were about to part ways. 

“Hmm. That remains to be seen.” Machaon beckoned Podalirius over, who dropped everything and approached them.

“Well? Where are we supposed to go?” Machaon demanded. They were certainly not welcome back in the court of Opus. 

“I have arranged with King Lycaon. He’s agreed to grant you passage aboard his ship, when he returns to Pharsalus. You have to go.”

“Pharsalus?” Podalirius gasped, looking forlorn. It was a very long way from Opus. 

“You’ll be safe there,” Patroclus insisted. “King Lycaon has agreed that you will be given no trouble when you arrive in the city.” 

Podalirius turned to Machaon. “What are we supposed to do in Pharsalus?”  
He turned back to Patroclus, teary-eyed.   
“I won’t have you to tutor anymore.”

Patroclus felt a pang. He leaned forward and embraced Podalirius, this brave man who had persevered until this point. 

Machaon looked at them sternly. “He won’t need it.”   
He glanced at Patroclus.   
“You … I wish I could say your father would have been proud, but you never knew with King Menoetius. I will say this; I am proud. I wish you the very best, your highness. May you weather this storm, and may you find peace with it.” 

Patroclus could only stare back, clasping hands with Podalirius, and then Machaon. 

“May we see each other again, Patroclus,” said Podalirius.   
“Don’t forget us.”

This brought a tear to Patroclus’ eye. 

“I will never forget you,” he whispered.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He awakened with a jolt. Something had disturbed his dreams. Getting out of bed, he looked out the window, but there was nothing. Only moonlight. He looked for a little while longer, wondering if out there, Macarius had a window that overlooked the same moon. 

He heard Achilles shuffle up to him. Felt him draw up behind him. 

“Not long now,” Achilles murmured. 

“We will win,” Patroclus said, summoning strength to his voice, echoing Achilles’ words from before.   
They were awaiting word from Captain Menesthius, that the Arisbeans in the palace had fully engaged. Even now, the men were positioned, watching the palace like hawks. When the order was given, they would surround the palace from all sides - north, south, east, and west. They had to make sure that no strays were outside, no one who could sneak up on them before they had the palace. 

“You should go,” Patroclus added, looking back at Achilles. He would be needed to give the final order. 

Achilles took a long look at Patroclus, as if looking at something far away.

“I will go,” he conceded, and turned to put on his armor. He went to the entrance; Eurypylus and three other handpicked men guarded the house. 

There was a knock on the door before Achilles could leave, he opened it, and Eurypylus stood on the threshold. 

“Your highness, we have word that the palace is taken. It’s time to move the troops.” 

Achilles nodded, looking back at Patroclus. 

“I will see you,” he said. 

There was a kind of finality in his eyes. 

Patroclus couldn’t stop the rising trepidation in his gut. He took in Achilles’ form, wondering if this was the last he would see of him. Achilles’ face, those eyes, that had caused him so much sorrow, so much anger. Had made him laugh, at times. Had made his heart clench with the echo of something that could have been, the way Achilles had looked at Macarius, and loved him.

“Come … back,” he replied, voice shaky.

Achilles stared, reaching back a little as if to take his hand. 

“Patroclus, I -”

There was a noise, as Eurypylus gurgled in the doorway. They both snapped their attention towards him. He crumpled, body falling onto the ground with a thud, blood pooling around his neck. His throat had been slit. 

“Get back!” Achilles cried immediately, drawing his sword and slamming the door shut. He pulled Patroclus against him, and they crept up against the wall, peering out a window to assess the situation. 

“It’s Hector,” Achilles hissed in Patroclus’ ear. 

Patroclus was in disbelief. “No,” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.” 

Achilles ignored him as he tried to find a way out of the house.   
“The back alley,” he muttered, and ushered Patroclus, keeping their heads down and out of sight from the windows. 

They reached the back door, and Achilles cursed as he saw men coming towards them.   
“They’ve planted spies,” he said. “Hector has been conspiring with the northerners. They’ve disguised themselves as ours.”

“He’s going to … take us from the inside as well as the outside?” 

Cold dread filled Patroclus, he thought of the Trojan soldiers outside the palace, neck to neck with the Phthians. Their plan to overtake the Arisbeans, inside the palace and out. Hector had not only infiltrated this plan, he had turned the same one on them. Arisbeans storming the city from the outside, and Arisbean spies already within the city; disguised as Phthians, along with the Trojans who had been granted entry. Patroclus was sick and chilled to the bone. 

“We invited them in,” Achilles moaned. He looked at Patroclus, so much regret in his eyes.

“I am sorry,” Patroclus breathed. “I am so sorry.”

“Fuck, we have to get out of here. I’m going to chance it. You stay behind me. Fuck, I wish I brought a shield.” 

On a count of three, Achilles burst out of the back alley, startling the oncoming soldiers. Arisbeans in Phthian uniforms. Spies, who had killed Eurypylus. 

Patroclus crouched behind the door, listening to the sounds of fighting. He could hear men dying, but he didn’t know who. 

Then the door was flung open, and Achilles dragged him out. He had a wound on his chest, a cut from a sword. Shallow, but it bled a lot, and the blood drenched Patroclus’ robes as he was pulled flush against Achilles, both of them racing for cover, for a path that would bring them towards the camp.

There were more men coming in every direction.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They rounded a corner, and Achilles ducked into a doorway, another empty house, this one cramped and musty. They heard the sounds of footsteps outside, it would be a while until the pathway was clear. 

Achilles was panting, his grip hard around Patroclus’ waist. They looked at each other, and Achilles bent to lean his head on Patroclus. 

“We’re going to get out of this,” he said. Patroclus nodded.   
“You asked me to trust you one last time.”

Patroclus wavered. “And I failed you.”

Achilles took Patroclus’ face in his hands.   
“These past few weeks … I hated you, for what you did. But … I can’t fault you for wanting to save our home.”

Patroclus had nothing to say to that, only to place his hands over Achilles’ and squeeze them tight in reassurance. 

“We’ll take the longer route to the camp. Can’t risk more spies closing in on us. I’m not sufficiently armed to face more than a few at a time.”

Patroclus had become nearly hollow with fright, he could only listen and do as Achilles told him. 

They waited for a little while more, and Patroclus caught a glimpse of a bed in the corner, an empty infant’s basket next to it. His heart wrenched violently, a madness overcoming him. 

He gripped Achilles’ arm. “Let’s go.” 

He would see Macarius again, even if he had to face death to do it.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They reached the camp, the low building in the heart of the city. It had once been the army barracks, but was abandoned when the army transferred closer to the palace. There was no light, and no sign of Hector and his troops. Seeing this, Achilles became even more livid, and stormed into the camp, startling the soldiers who remained there, awaiting their orders. 

“Where is Hector?” Achilles demanded.

Captain Menesthius and a few of his men emerged, looking irritated at being disturbed from their quiet formations. 

“He went with the army to the palace, my lord,” the captain replied. 

Achilles grabbed the nearest soldier and shoved him out of position. 

“He is our enemy!” he cried. “We must get to the palace before he kills all the surviving men.” 

Captain Menesthius looked back at Achilles, eyes gleaming angrily. 

“You did bring the Trojan here, my lord,” he chastised, sounding like he was trying his hardest to hold back his agitation. 

“I know,” Achilles snapped. 

“You’re sure he has betrayed us?”

“They attacked us,” Patroclus cut in. “They killed Eurypylus!”

Captain Menesthius looked back and forth between them.   
“The Trojans are already with our men. If Hector has betrayed us, most of them will be dead.” 

Patroclus lurched forward, feeling helpless, nearly paralyzed with fear. 

He met Captain Menesthius’ accusatory look. 

“There’s still time,” he pleaded. “Send your men, please, captain.”

There was a long silence, as the captain pondered this. 

“Give the order,” he whispered to Achilles. 

Achilles wasted no time. 

The soldiers looked alarmed, and rushed to follow Achilles’ orders. It took several moments, but to their relief, the soldiers dispatched, and marched to intercept Hector and his treachery.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was moments after the men had left, when Patroclus started to wonder why Achilles made no movement. 

He looked at Achilles, studying his face. 

Achilles’ lips were pursed, a sweat starting to form on his brow. 

Suddenly, Achilles turned to him.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said. “You may go.” 

What?

“But …”

“Patroclus,” Achilles repeated. “Go.” 

Where was he to go?

He stared back, confused and unwilling. Achilles had wanted him there the whole way. Back at the house, when they escaped together. When they waited for the path to clear back to the camp.   
Thoughts swimming, he squinted into Achilles’ face’. The latter was standing as still as a figure of wax, and seemed to have come to a realization that Patroclus did not understand. 

Looking at Achilles’ torment, it slowly began to dawn on him. How could they have been attacked at the house? Hector might have reason to betray them, but he didn’t know Achilles had been staying there. Aside from the guards, there was only one person who could possibly have known. 

Achilles was now staring at Captain Menesthius, who stood before them in a relaxed manner. 

There was a cold light in Achilles’ eyes. 

The captain stepped forward then, expression closed-off, but the blackness of his gaze betrayed a fury long-concealed. 

“This is for a boy you murdered.” 

The men in Phthian uniform, coming to kill them. Not Arisbean spies, after all. They were Phthian men. They were Menesthius’ men. 

Patroclus sobbed in agony. They had gotten it so wrong. 

This was revenge. 

For Antilochus.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus could smell incense burning, for some reason, and it brought him back. The images flashed in his mind, and he thought of the things he had chosen. The consequences they carried. He had chosen to be with the man he loved. He had chosen to give his child something of Automedon’s wishes, the dream they’d both shared, before it all came crashing down. People had died for it. Facing this now, he knew he would choose those things again and again. And here, his final decision. 

“I won’t go,” he said. 

He went up to Achilles, taking his hand. Achilles’ form started to shake, just a little. Patroclus looked up, into his proud face, and saw in it the first time; fear. 

They stood together, looking at Menesthius, in the now-empty camp.

Out of the darkness, the figures emerged. 

Achilles’ own men, the commanders under Menesthius’ authority.   
Men who were loyal to Menesthius.   
Men who knew what had been done to Antilochus, one of their own.

Patroclus’ blood boiled, thinking of Hector, of whom they had assumed betrayal. Hector, who had lent his aid, all for a brother he loved. While Hector fought on their behalf, regaining the palace, they had been lured here, isolated from his reach. 

Achilles gripped Patroclus’ hand hard, the bone close to snapping. His breathing had quickened, but his face was hard as stone. The knowledge on it was painful; knowledge that men he trusted had turned on him. He had taken a life that should never have been taken. Here was the consequence. 

The quiet footsteps approached them, and Patroclus knew, even without looking, that they were surrounded. 

He inhaled, the timing of his breaths falling in with Achilles’.

The footsteps drew close.

They exhaled.

He counted their breaths.

One and two, to the beat of their hearts.


	21. Epilogue

Sun and clear skies, perfect for the day’s event. 

Even so, nothing would stop the races. Not even a practice day. Not rain, whether drizzle or downpour. 

The Thessalians were passionate about their racing. 

Briseis waited in the seats of the hippodrome, a hand shielding her face, squinting. Watching for him.

She often thought he was too young. Chariot-racing, it was a dangerous sport. But he had wanted to learn, and how could she deny him? It was in his blood. 

The races drew to an end, each faction stopping to assess their horses, the condition of their chariots. 

She saw him then, riding up to her, head tossed back in exhilaration. A natural, even at his age. She frowned. Those weren’t his horses. 

“Briseis!” Macarius called, pointing at the steeds attached to his chariot, a silly grin on his face. 

He was going to get it, afterwards. She didn’t like when he wouldn’t keep both hands on the reins. 

“Cari,” she admonished. “Whose horses are those?”  
She stood with her hands on her hips, waiting. 

His cheeks turned red, but he couldn’t hide his smile. Not Cari.

“They were a gift!” he objected, descending from the chariot in one smooth jump. Yes, he was going to get it from her indeed. How many times had she told him to use the step? 

“Ilias gave them to me! He said they would help me become a champion. If I work hard enough, I can qualify to compete next season.” 

Briseis rubbed at her brow. 

Macarius was starting to get that look on his face.  
“Please, Briseis?” 

It didn’t matter. He was going to do as he liked, anyway. The only thing standing between that boy and what he loved was, well … Briseis.  
“You will ride them for practice, here in the hippodrome. Nowhere else, and for no other reason.”

He beamed. “Thank you, thank you!”  
Running up to her, he pulled her into an embrace.  
Then he took the horses' reins to lead them back to the stables. 

“Come, Glaucus. Diomedes.”

Briseis suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he had named his horses after them. Characters from his favorite story, after all. 

She watched as he led the horses away, thinking of how little he was. She was going to give Ilias a piece of her mind about letting a small boy have horses as powerful as those.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------

They walked back together, to the estate, Macarius holding her hand. 

He desperately needed a bath. 

When they were done with dinner, and Macarius had helped the superintendent and his wife with their evening chores, she had him sit in the tub while she scrubbed at him vigorously. 

He laughed and blew bubbles, splashing all the way. His carefree nature was contagious. Briseis thought, often, of what had been sacrificed for this child to be the way he was. 

When she had tucked him into bed, Macarius took her hand before she could leave the room.

“Briseis …” he said, a thoughtful expression on his little face. It was in these moments that she saw a glimmer of Patroclus. 

“What is it, little one?”

“Do you really not want me to become a chariot-racer?” 

Briseis sighed, reaching out to brush Macarius’ dark waves of hair.  
“I worry for you, that is all. I think about how you might get injured. Especially when you start competing seriously. Chariot-racers don’t have long careers, you know. I worry that you want it for the wrong reasons.” 

Macarius studied her, the intensity of his eyes a contrast to his usually bright demeanor. 

“I love it, Briseis. It makes me feel so … light and free. Like I can fly.”

Briseis smiled, then. “Just as long as you don’t forget why you love it.”

She moved to get up, but Macarius kept his hold on her hand. 

“Briseis, not yet! Tell me a story, please!”

This time, Briseis did roll her eyes. He was getting a little too old for her stories, she thought. But the way he sat and listened, like he was soaking up every word - it reminded her of someone else she knew. 

“Alright,” she sighed. “Which one should I tell?”

His eyes glinted as he gave her a knowing smile. 

“You know which one.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------

He had started to fall asleep, when she went out onto the balcony, as she did every night. The cool breeze touched her skin, and she drew her shawl tightly around herself. 

Looking out over the scenery, she felt the old ache in her heart resurface. 

Sometimes she didn’t know why she stood out here, watching. She had waited here, when Macarius was an infant. She was still waiting. 

The flickering of lamps from the other houses nearly drowned out the light of the stars. But they were always there. The two warriors, whom Patroclus loved so dearly. 

His favorite story. 

She smiled, then, thinking of another story. It was the story she had been telling Macarius, all along.


End file.
